What Hurts The Most
by SammyQuill
Summary: "Maes Hawkeye doesn't have a father." Her eyes are tired, but at that moment, they reflect every bit of love and hate she has ever felt for him. "And neither does he require one." Set post canon, angst!RoyAi. Again, not for happy readers.
1. The Rain

**Disclaimer:** There are many things in this world I don't own, chief among them Fullmetal Alchemist (© Arakawa), Goodnight Beautiful (© Koomson) and What Hurts The Most (© Rascal Flatts).

**Acknowledgement:** Many people need to be thanked for their help and support in this peace of fan fiction so please bear with me. Firstly, Bookwrm389 who - for reasons I will never fully understand – agreed to be my beta even after what I did to her in _Almost Here. _Secondly, maryh10000 whose idea of Roy burning the land on the Cretan border I kinda stole from her amazing fic, _The Toll_. And thirdly, Lau Nebin and ghostwritercharlin for being some of the most supportive people I know.

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><p>You reach for the tap only to realize that the usual twist and press won't do the trick. The water that is supposed to flow from the tap isn't coming, and the leaky pipes, which you've been meaning to get fixed for two weeks, have now probably given up on you. You shut your eyes and try not to think about what the halting of the water supply in the kitchen sink has done to the tiny basement of your small house, as if by doing so the miniature flood in the basement would cease to exist, would clean itself up and fix the broken coffee table stashed there some months earlier.<p>

You know – with all the acuteness being a mother had forced you to possess – that today will be one of those days. One of those days where nothing will go your way and no one will make the effort to better your life even if only a little. One of those days where you'll go to work in low spirits and snap at the administration staff for things you would usually let them get away with. Yes, one of those days. A fact that is confirmed when you open your eyes and see Maes enter the kitchen, still in his wrench-patterned pajamas (a gift from his Aunt Winry) with his fine, dark hair uncombed and no books or school bag in sight on a Wednesday morning.

Yes, definitely one of those days.

"Maes, why aren't you dressed for school?" you ask wearily as you take off the rubber gloves since washing up is now impossible.

"But mummy, I _am_ dressed," the seven-year-old replies, his eyes full of an earnestness that would have fooled almost anyone but you. "This is what I'm wearing."

You close your eyes once again and tell yourself that yelling at Maes first thing in the morning isn't very likely to make your day better. If anything, you'll end up feeling worse than before for upsetting him. That's how it has always worked with the two of you, ever since he was a baby. You would try to discipline him for his own sake and then go cry where he can't see you. In a way, no matter what he does, both of you end up upset.

"Maes, I don't want to argue, go change," you say tersely, moving to his lunchbox to make sure his assortment of sandwiches, fruits and candy bar are laid out properly beside his bottle of milk.

"But I told you, mummy, this is what I'm wearing," he insists again. "This is how I want to go."

You take a few deep breaths, all set to give him the one glare that once worked just as well on his father as it does on him, when the doorbell rings. And before you can even begin to contemplate who would possess the rudeness to call at your house at seven in the morning, Maes has flown off his chair and is doing exactly what he has been instructed not to do.

"Maes Hawkeye, how many times must I tell you never to open-," the words trail out of your mouth, silence chasing in their wake as bright, blinding light floods the hallway. You squint against the brightness, and you can just make out a man dressed in blue, a kind of blue that makes your heart clench painfully.

"Maes…"

"That's okay mummy," the boy at the door smiles at you. The smile that stole your heart the very first time you held him in your arms. Up until Maes' birth, you were uncertain of the decisions you'd made, but that one smile made it all worthwhile and would continue to do so no matter what the future brought.

And it is with that smile that your child is looking at you, saying "Really, mummy, I _want_ to go. I'm ready see."

He is no such thing. How could your son, the boy who still needs his clothes laid out for him, his breakfasts and lunches and dinners made for him, his books and toys arranged for him so he wouldn't trip over them on his midnight trips to the bathroom, be ready to leave without you? No, he isn't going anywhere, especially not in the company of someone who wears blue and has so much light shining off his glasses that you can barely make out his familiar face.

To your horror, Maes is still smiling at you even as he takes this stranger's hand. "I love you, mummy," he says in a way only a seven-year-old who hasn't realized it's uncool to admit it can say. "Don't be sad, okay?"

And just like that, the bright light is swallowing Maes' tiny body, leaving nothing but an empty space in his wake, an empty space which you know will never, ever be filled.

"Maes!" you shout, trying to bring him back, trying to fill that space with his name, with his presence. "Maes!" your voice is choked with tears this time, but to no avail.

"Maes..," you whisper weakly as you sink to your knees. "Come back..."

* * *

><p>"Riza, Riza wake up."<p>

Jean Havoc's voice is quiet in the dark hospital room as he nudges Riza Hawkeye awake. Upon entering, he expected to find her in her chair in a corner of the room, but instead Riza has fallen asleep in an awkward position on her knees with her head resting on Maes' bed. Jean doesn't envy her the aches and pains that will follow from having fallen asleep in such a state. Actually, Jean doesn't envy her situation from any angle these days.

Slowly, the blonde opens her eyes, and he is forced to once again notice the unshed tears straining to fall from those reddish orbs. In better light, both her and her sons' eyes glow with a faint hint of gold, but lately hers simply look defeated.

And his… Jean hasn't seen Maes open his eyes in days.

Unsteadily, he helps Riza to her feet and walks her to the hard and uncomfortable chair that has been her post for the last two weeks. Indeed, the only reason she leaves the room and Maes' side these days is to go back home to get more books, toys and knick-knacks that she believes will entice the boy lying between the pale sheets to open his eyes and come back to her, to _them._

"Riza... you should go home and get some sleep," Jean suggests slowly, as if by doing so he can somehow convince the woman in front of him that six hours of uninterrupted sleep in a proper bed is a good idea. "After all, you can't get sick just in time for Maes to wake up."

Even as she shrugs his suggestion off, her eyes scan his face for sincerity. He has become quite accustomed to that look. It is the same with which she regards the doctors' faces every time they give her an update on Maes' condition. It pulls at Jean's heart to see his best friend this way, searching in others' faces to validate her own belief that her son will wake up any moment now and continue to cause the chaos that he is so famous for. After all, the words "Maes Hawkeye" and "quiet" never did work well in the same sentence.

Getting to his feet, Jean makes his way to the bed and the boy hooked up to several IVs as well as a monitor that shows brain activity. "Hey there, buddy." He says to the unresponsive boy lying as still as a statue. "George and Keith missed you at basketball today. And Jennifer says she won't color in her new book unless you color with her."

Maes lies as still as before, not giving any signs of having heard. Jean continues regardless. "Aunt Becca sends her love, and she says she's going to make your favorite cheesecake. But you have to get better to have some. Right buddy?"

Brushing the child's soft dark hair back, he whispers, "Wake up soon," before turning his attention to Riza, whose eyes are glued to her son's face. Only in sleep could Maes look like an angel, and Jean knows perfectly well that an angel is not what Riza wants right now. She wants her son to get up, jump all over the bed and point at every bit of machinery in the room, all the while asking questions about how they work and wrecking a few in his attempts to find out.

Mustering up some of the courage he had been storing away for this very occasion, he says, "Maybe it's time we-"

"You're right," she cuts him off sharply. "I should probably get his _Happy Friends_ record. He loves listening to that." Her voice may be quiet but the challenge in it is palpable.

Jean shrugs defeated. "Sure, I'll watch him until you get back." He takes a seat wearily on the chair she has just vacated.

"Thank you," she replies, this time lowering her eyes. Unable to meet his gaze, Jean can't help but think. His own farewell is just as awkward.

Tonight, he reflects as he watches her go, will be just another night. One where he won't get out the words they both need to say and hear.

* * *

><p>General Roy Mustang slams the door of his small townhouse shut, not bothering to remove his boots despite the muck and grime they track into the living room – every speck of it a souvenir from his survey of the portion of the Amestrian-Cretan border he would soon be incinerating over the next few weeks. Truth be told, there could be worse ways to spend his days than burning the soil at the Cretan border so the locals could put it to use farming under the new treaty and alliance formed between Creta and Amestris, but the General honestly didn't give a damn. These days, work was work and that was that. Having reached the rank of General meant no worries on future promotions and as for the Fuhrership… he had already lost far more important things in life.<p>

Making his way to the small refrigerator, he pulls out a glass of cool water before changing his mind and substituting it for a light wine instead. He's already had a pathetic excuse for dinner at the officer's mess earlier so all he really needs before bed is some mild liquid peace – and maybe a shower. With a glass of white wine in one hand, the General takes up his usual space in a comfortable armchair beside his sparsely used bed. In all the time he has lived here, he's often found himself falling asleep while in the midst of contemplating moving out of the chair and into the bed not two feet away. As a result, he wakes up every day with barely enough energy to work the next morning and a backache that should belong to a man twenty years his senior.

Deciding he will get up, shower and change and then sleep properly for a change, he takes another sip, watching the cool white sheets laid out pristinely. Although, he reconsiders, it would be a shame to disturb them, and then he'll have to make them this way all over again.

He takes another sip, feeling himself getting drowsy. Yes, in a few minutes he will get up… in a few more minutes…

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><p><strong>End Note:<strong> So, as you've probably worked out by now, I'm trying not only a new style of writing but also a different story line. Any feedback you can give me will be much appreciated. Not to mention reviews help me update faster. ;)


	2. Empty House

**Acknowledgement:** Once again, major thanks goes out to Bookwrm389 for putting up with my crazy tenses. If you think being a beta is easy, you should see how much work she puts in to get my writing to make sense.

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><p>Mummy is not happy.<p>

He knows that his mummy isn't happy because she's put him down in this new bed-like place and gone to talk to that other woman. Mummy would never put him down in a new place and leave him if she was happy. She always holds him close and sings to him and gives him sweet milk, but now she isn't happy and it is because of "work".

Yes, "work" is the place mummy has started going to recently, and as much as he wants, he can't follow her. He doesn't really know what all the grown-ups see in this "work", but he gets the feeling that babies aren't allowed there.

But today mummy has brought him with her because she says he has something called a "temp richer". He never knew he had one, and he has tried to look all around him to find it, but maybe babies can't see "temp richers"? His mummy certainly can and so, instead of staying home, she had carried his pram out, tucked him into it and brought him to "work".

But that mean lady doesn't want a baby at "work". That's why mummy is unhappy, and he wants to do something to help. But what can he do? He is just a baby who has an invisible "temp richer" that only grown-ups can see. So he decides to be as quiet as he can where he lies so the lady won't even notice there is a baby at "work".

_Maes Hawkeye, age 20 months_

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><p>There is something fundamentally unnatural that hits you upon walking into a Maes-less house. The sheer silence his absence creates comes down on you in droves, threatening to suffocate you as you make your way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the door to his room ajar and resist the impulse to go in, to go through his clothes and toys and rub his soft shirts to your skin and breathe in the scent of his bed sheets. These are all signs of the grieving, which are meant for those who need something to cling to after their loved ones have departed. You will never do that for Maes because Maes has <em>not<em> departed in any sense of the word.

Resolutely taking your eyes off the door, you open the small refrigerator and take out the water bottle. A glass soon follows, and you watch the water swirl and splash against the clear walls of the glass in a semi chaotic pattern. Two weeks ago, you couldn't have cared less how an ordinary glass scooped up even more ordinary water in its depths, but that was before you found out that things were never as they seemed. Before you found out that you could walk into your son's room to offer him a cookie and find him lying face down on the floor amid a circle of brightly colored crayons.

Yes, in just two weeks, your life has done a complete roundabout turn. If everything was as it should be, then right now, the greatest of your concerns would be trying to coax a hyperactive seven-year-old into bed so he wouldn't be late for school tomorrow. As it is, you are sitting alone in your kitchen, contemplating a glass of water you have forgotten what you intended to do with.

Not for the first time that day, the traitorous thought creeps into your mind. The fear that you keep so firmly locked in the recesses of your soul and that has no doubt been released due to the stress of the last two weeks. But no, you can't… you can't… can you..?

You realize now how lucky you have been with Maes. In the case of most single parents, they have to share custody of their children with the other parent. There are hassles of who gets the child for Christmas, summer holidays, other special events. But there was no such thing with Maes and yourself. You've been spoiled really, having him all to yourself these last seven years, and now, when you aren't with him, when he isn't with _anyone_, the anxiety is eating away at your insides like a slow but steadily progressing bacterium. An acid has started seeping into your stomach, lungs, anywhere there is doubt that your son will not be able to make it. That the very last image he will leave you with will be the one of him lying in the hospital bed, unable to communicate with anyone, alone, scared…

You snatch up the glass with unnecessary force and swallow the cool tasteless concoction in one gulp, trying your best not to let your mind wander in that direction. If there is any child in the world who can come out of a coma, it's Maes Hawkeye. It just isn't in his nature – given who his parents are – to simply give up.

You try to convince yourself of this over and over again as you go through the usual routine of a quick shower and change of clothes and hunt for the record you came for, all the while trying to have minimal contact with Maes' things, and lock the door on your way back to the hospital.

Of course Maes will be alright. He has to, he simply _has_ to. Because you don't know what you'll do if he isn't.

* * *

><p>General Roy Mustang's dreams used to be filled with the thousands of faceless people and voiceless screams of Ishval after the Extermination Campaign of '08. But as the years went by, those dreams were replaced with the ones of Maes Hughes, sometimes telling him he would always support Roy on his way to the top, sometimes asking his best friend why he wasn't there to save him and how could he look after his beautiful Gracia and precious Elycia now? Sometimes even admitting he forgave Roy for failing him and his family.<p>

And then, when all light was taken from his eyes, he dreamed of his then-Lieutenant, of her pale and lifeless body in a pool of blood, of her eyes losing that last bit of sheen that made them hers, of her voice struggling to emerge from her bloodless lips and failing… Of course, there was no real reason behind these visions, seeing as the object of them was perfectly fine – even if a little worse for wear – in a bed right across from his. He could hear her, smell her, sense her, so why wouldn't his dreams comply with the schema gathered from when he was awake?

When his eyesight was restored, it took seeing her for the first time since that day – a little blurry, a little misshapen and distorted, but definitely _her_ – to realize he had needed to see her, _actually see her_, to confirm without a doubt that she was fine. That all his other senses hadn't somehow been lying to him, that she was indeed, alive and well and _with him_. It also made him realize he never wanted to open his eyes ever again without her being the first thing they saw.

She must have felt the same way because from then on small gestures of affection, such as holding her hand underneath the table, snaking an arm around her waist under the pretense of helping her with her coat and tentative smiles passed over cups of coffee, had become quite common between the two. The move to the east had greatly helped in not only the Ishval project but also their personal budding relationship. For the first time in so many years, they could simply enjoy each other's company without looking over their shoulder for someone watching, someone willing and ready to use their closeness against them.

The day Roy had been promoted to Lieutenant General was one of dual celebration. For while he himself was that much higher on the political ladder to Fuhrership, Hawkeye had transferred from under his command and into the Fuhrer's eastern branch with just enough freedom to still hang around the Flame Alchemist's office, to do everything she always had for the team, but still not be called a direct subordinate. Indeed, it had been a shocking morning for the guys to walk into the office one Monday only to see Hawkeye in the process of giving the Lieutenant General a quick kiss on the cheek as she bid him farewell until lunch.

They had never really gone public. Hawkeye was too reserved for anything like that and he himself was still a little paranoid, though he would never deny it if asked directly. In any case, anyone who knew them well enough knew they were inseparable outside of work. Indeed, Breda often joked that they should move in together in the interest of saving cost – the military's of course, as issuing two separate accommodations really was unethical to two people who spent that many nights together.

Yes, those were blissful days. Days of hard work and nights of reward. The Ishval reformation project was going as smoothly as could be expected, considering the fact that the Fuhrer was making it one of his top priorities. And she loved him. She never said it too much, probably afraid to wear out its meaning but that was of little concern to him. Because her love for him showed in all the little ways it always had since they were mere children, growing up in her father's rundown house at the edge of town. Their love had been put through many challenges and evolved with time, but it hadn't lessened one bit. And as he held her in his arms on warm summer nights, simply reveling in the scent of her hair and the feel of her curled up in his arms, he would think that if he wasn't the happiest man in the world, he was pretty damn close.

It is of those sweet nights and days that General Roy Mustang now dreams of, from his armchair not two feet away from the bed in which he should be sleeping, his boots tossed aside and his dress shirt only half unbuttoned. Those forbidden thoughts and dreams, which he had promised to leave behind and would never allow himself to recall in the harsh light of day, are the main reason the General sleeps as uncomfortably as he can, ready to pay the equivalent exchange required for the sweet dreams it would induce.

But tonight, just as the scent of those summer nights begin to fill his hazy senses, aided no doubt by the wine he consumed earlier, a sharp ringing noise drags him rudely back to reality. It takes his sleep-boggled brain a moment to realize the noise is coming from the phone in the living room.

For a while, Roy simply ignores the insistent machine, trying to lull back the sleep by shutting his eyes against the shrill ringing. But the late night caller has no intention of giving up. Cursing softly, the General makes his way to the living room and half growls into the phone "Who's it?"

"Sir, Captain Fuery here, Sir! I know the hour is late, but… it's an emergency."

Roy may not remember the last time he spoke to Fuery but he's lucid enough to realize that if the Captain is calling at this time with an emergency, it could only be _her_. Something is very wrong.

"What happened," he barks into the receiver, trying not to give away how painfully his heart is clenched at the thought of something happening to her. Fuery must have understood because the young Caption's next words make Roy sigh in relief.

"Nothing like that Sir, she's fine… it's just that, well, could you sit down first General? This may be a bit of a shock…"

"Get on with it, officer," Roy encourages gruffly, taking a seat none the less.

"Umm… Sir, I'm very sorry to have to break it to you this way, but… you have a son. And he may be dying…"

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><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Well, should I be cowering in fear behind something/someone? *goes and hides anyway*


	3. A few Tears Now And Then

**Acknowledgment:** My sincerest thanks and heartfelt apology goes to Bookwrm389. I swear, I'm going to write nothing but RoyAi fluff after this project! Also, a shout out to ssadropout for being one heck of an observant reader. XD

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><p>"<em>Umm… Sir, I'm very sorry to have to break it to you this way but… you have a son. And he may be dying…"<em>

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><p>Those days in Eastern Command were, without a doubt, the happiest in Roy's entire life. His eyesight was restored, his alchemy was even better than before due to his visit to the Gate, the Ishvalans were slowly making their way back to their sacred home in the desert and being integrated throughout Amestrian society. And most of all, he was now with the love of his life, the only person he ever wanted to be with as he made his way to the top.<p>

Yes, it felt wonderful knowing that after so many years of doing only well, he was finally doing _good_. But there was one thing still that needed to be done, and for that, Roy would have to make a trip to Central to get his Aunt's permission, as well as his mother's ring.

Four months after his promotion to Lieutenant General and Hawkeye's transfer, he made his journey, saying it was business related so he could surprise her. Maybe she suspected something, maybe she didn't. She certainly didn't press the matter when he insisted she stay behind to oversee the lazy men he was leaving back east.

It took exactly a week, two days to get to Central, three days spent with his Aunt and sisters who teased him mercilessly and praised Hawkeye highly on taming the Mustang and another two to get back. He was sure his face would fall apart if he kept smiling at this rate as the train came to a bumpy halt, but picturing Hawkeye waiting for him at the station made his smile even wider. His eyes scanned the crowd for her face, the familiar golden hair, the all too often worn, anxious look when it came to his well being.

He didn't find her. Instead of Hawkeye, he spotted Havoc waving him over, cigarette in mouth. The smile on his face slipped slightly as he made his way to the First Lieutenant only to be told that Hawkeye was feeling a little under the weather and so couldn't come herself.

* * *

><p>"<em>His name's Maes, Sir – Maes Hawkeye. And he was born shortly after you transferred to the border. He's not yet eight but he's a very bright boy."<em>

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><p>Hawkeye looked white as a sheet as she entered his house that evening. When he first saw her enter, he wanted to wrap her in his arms and tell her he loved her and then proceed to go down on one knee and ask her to marry him. However, her pale face, red eyes and slightly feverish skin made him blurt out instead "Are you okay?"<p>

And just like that, in the space of a single sentence, his world quietly, without any theatrics, came to an end.

"I'm pregnant."

The words erupted from her mouth, but they didn't just vanish into thin air like words are supposed to. No, these two words grew to invincible mass and weight until they occupied the entire room – the entire world - suffocating both of them where they stood. They chased each other around Roy's mind, not making any sense and yet making perfect sense at once. _How could that be?_ was a stupid question to ask. He had after all, been just as responsible as she. _When did you find out?_ also seemed redundant because he knew she must have found out very recently. Hawkeye didn't keep things in for long and her ashen expression clearly stated that she was still in shock at the discovery. So finally, he settled for asking "How far along?"

"Six weeks, give or take."

All thoughts of rings and marriages were forgotten as he stumbled into a chair, trying to absorb what she'd said. Hawkeye, in turn, didn't seek the support of a chair or sofa. Pale and scared as she clearly was, she stood her ground, facing the situation like she faced every obstacle in life, on her feet, on her guard.

Suddenly, the woman standing before him was a stranger. He couldn't decide if he should ask her to sit down or hug her until he could make that scared look on her face go away. Never in his life had he ever felt awkward around Riza Hawkeye so it took him awhile to realize that was what he was feeling now. _Awkward_ around_ Riza Hawkeye_.

It was a mark of how well she knew him that she uttered the next words, knowing he would never have the strength to.

"What are we going to do about it?"

* * *

><p>"<em>Captain Hawkeye has done a fine job of bringing him up, if I may say so, General. But she was always adamant about not informing you of his… that is to say, she made it very clear that anyone who wanted to be a part of Maes' life had to pretend he never had a father. And no one was in a position to argue with her. Well, Caption Havoc tried, but you know how that always ends." <em>

* * *

><p>As he held her that night and they both pretended to sleep, he couldn't keep the earlier one-sided conversation from running through his head. Once she had declared the question as taboo as anything in the world could be, he had slowly, calmly, evenly proceeded to tell her and himself why they could not have the child.<p>

Logically speaking, there was no room for a child in the future they had planned. He may be of a high enough rank to support a family, but that didn't necessarily mean it was a good idea. Hawkeye would have to take leave from active duty, there would always be a baby to worry about, and at the end, when the democracy he envisioned – _they envisioned_ – finally came around, the child would be left parentless. And how could he – _they_ – do that to a child in good conscience?

She had stood there, by the hat stand, silently listening to everything he said, not offering a single word of her own. After what felt like hours, he was all talked out and all she did was nod, only once. She must have forgotten that he knew her just as well as she knew him, and so, he could tell she had a lot more to say. Why she didn't, he couldn't understand, and the cowardly part of him was even a little grateful that she had chosen to stay mute on the subject. Because deep down, they both knew that she had it within her power to convince him otherwise. That if she as much as parted her lips to say she wanted the child, he would give in, all logic be damned.

Maybe that was the reason she didn't utter a word as she hung her coat and made her way to the kitchen to heat up the dinner that both of them had pushed around on their plate without eating later that night. Maybe she didn't want to be the hand that forced him into this. Which just showed how much she was willing, had always been willing, to give up for his cause. And a large part of him hated himself that night for taking away the one thing he knew Hawkeye had desired for so long now. Anyone who knew her well knew her motherly streak, and in an ideal world, he would have her sit at home and do nothing but bless him with a whole brood of children. But as they both had learned, such a world didn't exist, and all they could do was face it together, taking all the consequences of it with them.

Tomorrow, he vowed as he felt her faint breathing next to him, he would make an appointment to take care of the problem. And then he and Hawkeye would try to move past this thing. The ring he had obtained from his Aunt had lain forgotten in his coat pocket, but maybe tomorrow, after the procedure was taken care of, he could finally propose to her and they could try and find a new normal. One that didn't hurt so much.

* * *

><p>"<em>But Sir, Maes is in a coma right now. Two weeks ago, the Captain found him in his room, unconscious and with blood pouring out of his nose. She rushed him to the hospital where they found out a vessel in his brain had ruptured due to unknown causes, and he had to be put into a medically-induced coma so they could operate on him as soon as possible." <em>

* * *

><p>He made to get out of the car as soon they found a parking spot behind the clinic. He figured a private clinic would be better for the job than the hospital where everything went on record. Not that what they were doing was strictly illegal, but if Roy had anything to say about it, it would be taken care of as easily and discreetly as possible. The surgeon who ran the clinic was known for her experience as well as kindness, and he had no doubt Hawkeye would get the best treatment possible. If nothing else, he would make damn sure of that.<p>

"Sir, I'd like to go unaccompanied," she said just as he was about to open the door. Her voice betrayed no emotion, and he was strongly reminded of the Hawkeye he had known in Ishval, the one who barely spoke, and when she did, only in simple words that could mean anything.

"Don't be ridiculous, Captain, I intend to be there with you every step of the way."

She had looked at him then, with the eyes of Ishval, and he found himself physically flinching. She was silently trying to communicate how hard this was for her and how much she needed to do this alone. And if he could do anything for her, this would be it.

"Please," she whispered, that one word breaking through all his defenses. He slumped down in his seat, defeated by her one word request. He did, however, lean over to brush his lips lightly to her forehead before she exited the vehicle and made her way to the clinic.

"Be safe, Riza… I love you."

* * *

><p>"<em>But now that the operation is over - with complete success - they can't seem to get him out of the coma. They don't really know why he's still asleep, but they say he should have woken up by now, and we're all very worried. The Captain has taken leave from work and spends all her days at the hospital, and when she can't, usually Captain or Mrs. Havoc watch Maes." <em>

* * *

><p>After what had felt like days of waiting alone in the car, he spotted Hawkeye finally exiting the back door of the clinic and making her way to their vehicle. She didn't say a word as he drove them to his house except to say she would be grateful if he could drop her off at her own flat instead. Not knowing what else to do, he complied and watched her disappear behind the simple wooden door, not even bothering to say goodbye.<p>

He drove aimlessly around town after, and then upon realizing it was nighttime, picked up some dinner. Hawkeye's favorite. He arrived at her doorstep at eight with a bag of takeout, a bouquet of flowers and his mother's ring in his pocket but when he rang the doorbell, no one answered. Using his spare key to enter her tiny flat, he was at first surprised at the darkness. Hitting a light switch revealed Hawkeye, lying on the couch, staring at nothing in particular as a hand rested on her stomach. She gave no reaction that her small living room had just been flooded in warm light and that a man stood in front of her. Depositing the food and flowers on a coffee table nearby, he made his way to the couch and upon failing to form words, just held her. A moment later, she started crying.

When most women cried, they looked delicate and sweet and vulnerable with tears rolling down their cheek as their lips parted softly in polite sniffles. When Hawkeye cried – something he had only seen her do four times in his life – she cried all out. Her eyes become huge and her pupils dilated as tear after tear rushed from her reddish-golden orbs and left thick wet trails down her face. She didn't cry quietly, his Hawkeye. No, she sobbed as though as she was being torn apart from the inside, her voice becoming steadily hollow as her wracked sobs shook her entire frame.

He let her cry herself into an exhausted stupor and then carried her to bed. He removed her shoes, her coat, laid her bag to one side and tucked her in. He was just about to leave for the living room, as her narrow single bed couldn't accommodate them both comfortably, when her fingers latched on to his shirt. Her eyes were still closed, there was no outward sign of her being conscious, but the fingers on his plain white shirt were all the invitation he needed. Fully clothed, he climbed into bed with her, not caring that it was too narrow, not caring that he would squash her into the wall. He lay with for hours until both fell into an uneasy sleep.

He woke to the sound of her retching, and while rushing to the bathroom to help her, he saw the cause of it. The food he had gotten the night before was half heaped on a plate, half dropped on the plain brown table cloth.

Great, once again, he had made her sick.

* * *

><p>"<em>General, we're going against Captain Hawkeye's wishes by contacting you, but we… we feel it's time you knew…"<em>

* * *

><p>He knew she was planning something. It had been four weeks since she'd actually said more than two words to him. The unit, which had been created for the sole reason of her transfer, now had her busy enough that she had no time to drop by his office. And heavens knew she was too occupied in the evenings to drop by his house like she had done every day before all this had happened.<p>

Yes, she was angry with him, and like always, she was going to get back at him. Very few people in the world knew Hawkeye's angry streak and her ability to hold grudges for long periods of time, but Roy was one of those few who were privy to that information. On his part, he believed he deserved whatever it was she was planning. He had, after all, taken away the one thing she had yearned for more than any other in the world, even though she never said it. But she knew him, understood very well why he had to make such a decision. She of all people should understand…

Her revenge came in the form of transfer papers. As the Lieutenant General in charge of Eastern Command, all transfer work had to go through him and/or his aide as well as the HR division. If Hawkeye was still at her post under him, she would be overseeing transfer work. As it was, the papers for Captain's Hawkeye's transfer to the south left him shell shocked. They had already been approved through the appropriate channels and only needed his sign and seal.

Was that it? Could she really no longer stand to be around him? Did she really despise him that much for what he'd done? He supposed he didn't blame her. But whatever else happened, he would not be the source of further inconvenience to her. If she couldn't bear to look at him anymore, he would remove himself from her presence. She belonged to the East more than he did, her childhood home was nearby, she had gone to the academy here, she even had some friends around these parts. No, _he_ was the reason for all her problems so it would only be fair if _he_ was the one to go.

To this day, he doesn't know what hurt the most, telling her that he was leaving and promising her that he would never try to contact her again, or watching her agree to let him walk out of her life without a word.

* * *

><p>"…<em>because honestly, we don't know how much more time Maes has." <em>

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Well, I hope this clears up some of the questions I've been getting. And now it is time to address all my Selims/Prides. I know you all watch this story, and I'd love to hear what you guys think about it! :)


	4. Every Once In A While

**Acknowledgment**: Bookwrm389 is the secret behind anything you might like in this piece of fan fiction.

**Note:** Apologies for the late (by my standards anyway) update, folks. My life went through at least four kinds of hell this past week and I'm still dealing with the aftermath. However, that won't affect future updates of this story. Thanks for sticking with me, everyone! :)

* * *

><p>"Mummy, that lady has a biiiig tummy!"<p>

His mummy doesn't look to where he's pointing, instead she looks at him. There is a line on her forehead which means she isn't pleased. He doesn't know why though. It is a very nice day with lots of sun that looks like mommy's hair and no rain that makes mummy sad. He is walking with her in the park because he doesn't want to ride in the pram like a small baby. Mummy has warned him that he will get tired, but he just smiles now, showing her what a big boy he is.

As they continue walking, he points to another person. "Mummy, that man has hair on his mouth!"

Mummy looks tired as she brings his hand down "Maes, it's rude to point."

'Okay," he replies happily, slowing down a little. He decides not to point any more because mummy doesn't like it. The next time he sees something odd, he just says it.

"Mummy, why are that man's eyes so close together?"

Instead of answering, his mummy simply bends down and scoops him into her arms, pushing his pram along with one hand. "Really Maes, if you don't stop that, somebody is going to smack me."

Why would mummy get smacked? Only bad, naughty people got smacked. Was his mummy naughty? She must be or she wouldn't get smacked.

Maes lets out a happy giggle in his mummy's arms and informs an elderly lady nearby proudly, "My mummy's naughty, she'll get smacked."

Mummy puts him in his pram and walks very fast after that. He doesn't mind, he likes going fast in the pram.

_Maes Hawkeye, age 3 years and four months_

* * *

><p>Roy Mustang hangs up the phone, his thoughts still whirling around Fuery's revelation. He has a son. He is a father. He has a child with Hawkeye. She's named him after his best friend.<p>

_She has lied to him all these years._

He remembers the week before his departure from the east all too well. How he had requested a position anywhere several hundred miles away from her, how he had cleared out his office himself, wanting to pack away not just material things but take with him the intangibles like the scent of the coffee she always greeted him with, the invisible imprints of her fingers on his notepads, the feel of her eyes on him as he pretended to indulge in another power nap.

The team had thrown him a hastily put together farewell, inviting the subordinates he had already requested from the Fuhrer to accompany him south. Ross, Brosh, Armstrong and a shy tech advisor discovered by Falman named Jane Bishop. Hawkeye had been there too, standing unobtrusively in the corner and trying her hardest not to look at him directly. When Havoc had raised his glass for a toast to wish Roy and his new team good luck, the Lieutenant General had pretended not to notice Hawkeye discreetly emptying her drink in a potted plant nearby. That was how much she couldn't stand him, he had thought then. She couldn't even take a cursory sip to wish him luck.

Of course, with the knowledge he now has, he knows that she was almost three months pregnant at the time. She couldn't have had a drink even if she wanted to.

Is he surprised that she managed to pull something this monumental off? No, not really. Hawkeye was always far sharper than people gave her credit for, and when she set her mind to something, one way or another, it got done. The question however was why she had gone to such lengths to hide the fact that she was carrying his child. Surely she knew he isn't the type to shirk responsibility? They had both known perfectly well that had she refused the abortion, he would have married her and they would be a proper family. He wouldn't be all alone, pale and shaken as the night she had told him she was expecting. And she wouldn't be so far away, raising a child _– their child _– on her own.

A child who is about to die…

It's at once funny and painful and bewildering how the General can feel the earth shaking beneath his feet every time he thinks of Maes' condition. He has never seen the boy, doesn't know what he looks like, if he takes after his father or mother in disposition… And yet, the care and protectiveness he feels for a boy he has never known is so strong, it is only eclipsed by the feeling of betrayal that cuts deep into his chest at what Hawkeye has done.

At that moment, Roy Mustang makes two decisions. One, he needs to see for himself what his son looks like. And two, he has to return to the east, to _her._ If nothing else, he is at least entitled to some answers.

* * *

><p>Looking at the simple wall clock in the room, you have learned, is not a good idea. It only tells you how long you've been here. How long your son has been unconscious. Instead, you occupy yourself with watching Maes, carefully observing each dip and press of his face, the small curve of his nose, the way his dark eyelashes rest on the skin beneath his eyes. You do all of this while telling yourself that you are <em>not<em> committing his features to memory.

A sudden panic grips your insides as you realize you don't really have many photographs of Maes. Always having been just the two of you, you preferred spending time on the other side of the camera, with him. Of course there was the shot of him at his school's play last year, all dressed up as an Ishvalan that carried gifts to more children dressed up as the Amestrian military. And more recently, a picture of him at Jennifer Havoc's sixth birthday party as he reached for the pink icing of the cake even before the girl had a chance to blow out her candles. (He wasn't being rude, as he had insisted indignantly when you reprimanded him. He had simply been saving that pink icing for Jennifer to have later because he knew all the other girls would go for it. And you had believed him. Almost everyone knew Maes had a soft spot for Jean and Rebecca's daughter. He had once confidently informed you he didn't need a sister because, "I can't look after you and Jen and another girl too, mummy. I'm only seven!").

Yes, there were a few pictures of Maes here and there but what about his expressions? How can you record how his voice changes, his head cocks to one side, his fingers worry the spot behind his ears as he tries to ask profound questions like, "Why is the sun so hot?", "Why is the rain so wet?" or informs you of his theories on how children below the age of three are babies but after are almost all grown up. How can you capture that beautiful smile on his face the day he told you not to be sad because he didn't have a daddy? That he, Maes, will look after you better than anybody's daddy looked after anybody's mummy.

The people in your life may have disappointed you. Your father, your mother, Maes' father. But the little boy in front of you makes up for it every day by simply existing. And if he were to leave you now, you know your last grip on sanity would come undone. No, this boy is a part of you. Physically, emotionally, he is the part of you that gives you strength every morning, the reason you don't just exist, but _live_. No matter how bad a day is, having him run into your arms at the end of it always makes it better. No matter how frustrated you get at his stubbornness, he is the sole reason you still smile and laugh.

And that is why you would sooner sacrifice everything else in the world than lose him, be it to fate, death or even his own father.

* * *

><p>Captain Jean Havoc makes his way wearily into the kitchen, noting that there is still a sliver of light underneath their bedroom door. Becca must still be up waiting for him, he realizes as he opens and closes the refrigerator door simply out of habit. He checks in on Jennifer and tiptoes out of her room upon finding her fast asleep, her rag doll clutched protectively to her chest.<p>

"Hey Becca," he says, going over to his wife and pressing his lips briefly to her forehead in greeting. He waits for a reply, discarding his jacket and working the buttons of his shirt. When the woman doesn't answer, he casts her a concerned look.

"Is everything okay?"

She holds up a small white card in response and Jean takes it from her hand. He turns it over only to recognize it as a black and white polaroid of two people who look entirely too familiar. He flips the photograph again and notices an untidy scrawl in a corner. "Hawkeye House, 1900"

_Looks about right_, he thinks as he studies the younger versions of Mustang and Riza. The General must have been only about fifteen or sixteen, if his thin but somewhat lanky and awkward frame is any indication. And Riza could have been anything from ten to fourteen. Her height suggests she is around twelve but her face is far too serious for someone of that age. Jean isn't surprised.

"Where did you get this?' he asks his wife.

"Jennifer's room," she reveals quietly, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger as she does when something is bothering her. "When I asked her where she got it, she said Maes had given it to her because he found it in his mother's old chest of drawers and when he asked her about it, she became sad. He… he was afraid she would throw the picture away so he smuggled it out of the house and gave it to Jen for safekeeping."

Jean breathes a deep sigh as he sits down beside Becca on their bed, his hand immediately reaching for hers. He knows better than anyone how much his wife is suffering, how much she wishes for Maes and Riza to go back to normal. How absolutely horrified she is at the sense of relief she feels every time she sees Jennifer happy and healthy and feels glad. Being a parent makes one very selfish, Jean has learned. Because no matter how much you love your friends and their children, when they are in trouble, you are always thankful that yours are safe.

"That's not the worst of it," Becca continues, her hands shaking underneath his own. "Maes told Jen that he knew the boy in the picture is his father. He didn't say how he knew, he just did. And that's why he wanted to keep the photograph safe, so at least he will have a 'picture daddy' if he can't have a real one…"

"Are you saying its time we contacted General Mustang?"

"I've been saying that for years, Jean." She replies, some of her usual sarcasm leaking back into her voice and making his spirit lift slightly.

"But you know Riza… she's as stubborn as-"

"As Maes," the brunette completes his sentence. "Anyway, we don't have to worry about getting in touch with Mustang anymore. Kain already did."

"What?" the Captain lets go of her hand and stares at her in shock. "How do you even know that?"

"He just called me. He said he was willing to risk whatever Captain Hawkeye will do to him when she finds out. He says Maes… that Maes might not have much time… And he wants one of us to warn Riza that the General is probably going to make an appearance in a day or two."

Jean simply hangs his head at this new piece of information, already knowing there is no way this whole mess can possibly end well. How could it, when two people as incorrigible as Mustang and Hawkeye are involved?

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Feedback is always greatly appreciated, and very needed right now seeing as I've never written anything like this before. Please let me know where I'm going wrong and/or right.


	5. Goin' On, With You Gone

**Acknowledgment:** As usual, major hugs go out to Bookwrm389 who did such a great job of beta-ing this despite her busy week. Seriously, betas like her deserve more love.

* * *

><p>In all the years Roy Mustang has spent away from the east, he has only seen Riza Hawkeye once. It had been five years after his posting near the Cretan border, and the only reason he had ventured back to East City was for Madam Christmas' funeral. The girls had already cleaned out her accommodations in Central and shipped off anything the Madam wanted her nephew to have, and all that had been required of him was his presence as the coffin was carried into town and then to the crematorium.<p>

Even now, he remembers the day well, bright and sunny and completely at odds with all the mourners gathered outside the crematorium. He remembers spotting her blonde head ducked discreetly beside Rebecca Havoc's, and he remembers wanting to walk over to her just to see her face, to take in her features just long enough to last him a few more years. Instead of following through on his instincts though, he had simply pulled his cap low over his eyes and watched the coffin being wheeled into the building.

Much later, as he was preparing for the train ride back south, Major Breda had come with a request to transfer under his unit as well. Breda had honestly admitted it was one of Madam's last requests to have someone near Roy, and – being caught up in the emotional whirlwind that came with losing his surrogate mother – Roy had agreed. But with all the information he has now, the General knows his subordinate must have had ulterior motives.

Breda had been there with Hawkeye and his son – and it still feels odd acknowledging he has one – and has remained quiet to this day. Roy can't begin to fathom why, so the best course of action is to ask the Major outright.

A soft knock interrupts the alchemist's musings. "Enter," he says evenly, watching the door open to reveal the heavyset redhead beyond. Breda snaps a smart salute and Roy acknowledges it in kind. Before saying anything, he gestures for the Major to take a seat.

Without any preambles, the General states "Fuery called last night." He isn't entirely surprised to see the lack of shock on Breda's face. "Both of us, I assume?"

"Yes, Sir," the man replies.

"He informed me that I have a son, and that the boy in question is in the hospital. Is this correct?"

"Correct, Sir." Breda affirms with a nod of his head, still no guilt or shame in his expression.

"Then can you explain why no one ever felt the need to enlighten me on the matter in the last eight years? And don't give me any of that bullshit about Hawkeye not wanting me to know. There were three dozen people involved who could have informed me at any given time, but they didn't!" he states, his voice rising with anger at every word. "I had a right to know," he adds stubbornly.

"With all due respect, Sir, I can't tell you why the others didn't see fit to brief you on the situation. I can only speak for myself."

"Then speak, Major. And try to tell the truth this time."

"I've never lied to you, Sir," Breda's voice rings cool and clear in the small office. "I did request posting here because it was the Madam's wish. She was of the opinion that while there were enough people to look after Maes, there was no one to look after you. And she wanted both her boys counted for."

"You mean… she k-knew?" the alchemist stammers, his hands shaking slightly on top of his desk.

"Sir, the woman had been running rings around the Amestrian Intelligence Bureau for years. No one could keep her away from her grandson," the redhead notes wryly.

The General bows his head, unable to ask the next question. His own Aunt… the only family he ever had hadn't bothered to inform him. Breda must have understood his superior's predicament because a moment later, he continues.

"She wanted to tell you, Sir. She was furious when she found out. Raged for hours about how there's no need for children to grow up without their fathers anymore. She was just about to call you when Hawkeye called. The Captain said she couldn't explain on the phone, but requested the Madam hear her out before making a decision as to whether or not to tell you about Maes. She was five months pregnant at the time."

Roy doesn't raise his head, doesn't look anywhere but the plain wooden surface of his desk on which he had taped the picture of his old team after first moving in. Ever since securing the photograph to the wooden surface, he had taken great pains to not look at it too often, but today, that picture is his refuge.

"Hawkeye came in half an hour later, escorted by Captain Havoc, and she and the Madam discussed the matter in her office. I don't know what Hawkeye said to the Madam, but Chris was resigned after that. And before you ask, Sir, no she did not confide in me what was said between the two. All I know is after that, the Madam tried to be as supportive of Hawkeye as possible. I know for a fact that Chris offered financial support when Hawkeye was selling her father's old property, but the Captain refused. She was – and I have no doubt still is – determined to raise Maes through her own efforts."

Every word uttered from the Major opens up a deep gash in the alchemist's chest. What had only seemed a ridiculous impossibility not too long ago is now solidifying into a full blown truth. He has a son, everyone knows he has a son. He is literally the last one to know. And all the people he previously thought cared about him did not see fit to enlighten him on this crucial piece of information. Not Hawkeye, not Madam Christmas, no one.

Forcing himself to put his own hurt behind for the moment and discuss the matter at hand as calmly as he could, the General asks, "So… there were financial problems? Did they persist? Does Ma- the boy require additional funds for better medical care at the moment?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Breda is quick to reply. "There was never really an issue, money-wise . The Captain simply sold the estate because she was made a good offer by some developers who wanted to convert the house into a hotel. So after careful deliberation, she went over, cleared up some things from there and signed the papers. Last I checked, she said the money would come in handy for Maes' education."

"I see," the alchemist sighs. "Well Major, I think we're through here. Please ask First Lieutenant Ross to book two tickets to East City on the next train. Oh, and you might want to pack your bags too, seeing as our stay there will be indefinite."

"Sir!" Breda acknowledges, getting to his feet.

"And Major… would you happen to have any pictures of the boy...?"

* * *

><p>"Mommy, is Maes going to die?"<p>

The innocent question catches you off guard, and you repress the shudder even as Rebecca hurries to silence her daughter. Little does the six-year-old know that she has voiced the question worrying every adult in the room. Not to be deterred, the girl with Jean's light hair and Rebecca's dark eyes turns to you, probably hoping you would have a better answer than her mother's previous "Shhh!"

"Aunt Riza, is Maes going to die?"

"Jen, if you ask that again, we won't let you see him anymore," Jean interrupts before you can answer.

"But why?" Jennifer wails, clearly outraged at the unfairness of life. You resist the temptation to wail the very same word. _Why? Why Maes? Why your son?_

"Because Maes needs to rest. And he can't rest with you making noise in his room, now can he?" Rebecca reasons with her child, and the tears about to cascade down the little girl's pale cheeks vanish like magic. Everyone present knows that Jennifer Havoc adores Maes Hawkeye and would do anything for him, even if that anything is to go against her six-year-old nature and remain quiet in a room full of adults and fascinating machinery.

"So if I'm real quiet, Maes will wake up, and we can go play." It's not a question, rather a conclusion the girl has drawn in her head. And you, for one, are not going to correct her.

"Of course, Jennifer," you confirm, making the girl flash a brilliant smile. Jennifer slowly makes her way to Maes' bed and informs him of the new development herself.

"Maes, your mommy says when you wake up, we can play. And she says we can have as much chocolate as we want. So you have to get up quick, kay ? Cause then we can have chocolate for dinner."

Nobody bothers correcting her. Hell, you would buy out the entire sweetshop if it meant your son would wake up and start eating it so ravenously that you wonder where it all goes. Maes had – _has_ – an amazing appetite and a quick metabolism. Even when he was younger, he could eat twice as much as anyone his age and still have room for dessert. Indeed, Madam Christmas used to laugh and laugh at the ravenous boy even as you assured her that yes, you were feeding him at home.

"Boys grow quick,' the woman had imparted among chuckles. "Before you know it, he'll be all grown up and gone."

_All grown up and gone…._

_And gone…_

The words ring ominously in your memory, making your head spin.

_Gone… _

* * *

><p><em>Deer Santa, <em>

_Mummy says you dunt egsist but Jen says you do. She says Aunt Becca helps her rite to you every year in D sember B cos shes to smoll to rite. Jen is only 4, I am much more bigger. Jen says I can rite to you to. _

_Jen says you give chilren what they wont so I thot I will let you no I wont a daddy this year. A daddy will be cool and will play with me like Uncle Vato plays with Gorge and Keeth. _

_But I dunt wont a daddy just for me, I wont one for mummy to b coz she is sad when no ones luking. One daddy is enuf for the to of us B coz mummy and I can share. Mummy can have him when hes not playing with me and I can have him when hes not with mummy. _

_I promise if you give me a daddy, I will take real gud care of him. He will be my next bestest frend B coz mummy is my bestest frend but I will love him lots to. And mummy will to, onest! _

_Yors Sinseerly,_

_Maes Hawkeye _

Roy Mustang reads the short holiday card for the thousandth time, not caring that the waning sunlight from the train windows is causing his eyes some serious strain. Breda had handed him a photograph along with this card earlier – as per the Madam's wishes on the day Roy did find out about his son –and since then, it had been exceedingly hard to keep his emotions in check. But now, sitting in the quickly darkening train compartment all by himself, the General lets his eyes water, releasing everything he had been feeling in the last two days.

_I'm coming, Maes,_ he repeats the mantra in his head over and over as the warmth slides down his face and into his jacket_. I'm running a little late but I'm coming._ _I'm coming, Maes. _

The passing scenery outside blurs - as does the picture of the black haired boy being hugged by his blonde mother – from his vision.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> As always, I love nothing more than reading what you guys think of my work. Be it compliments or constructive criticism, it all helps me improve as a writer. So please don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts.


	6. I Pretend I'm Okay

**Acknowledgment:** A big thank you to Bookwrm389 for sending this back at the speed of light and Sonja Jade was realizing Maes Hawkeye through her excellent photoshop skills. If there are delays in upcoming chapters, it is because my wallpaper keeps guilt tripping me every time I look at it. XD

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><p>Maes doesn't want to cry because only babies cry. And girls cry sometimes too, except his mummy because she is very, very brave. Uncle Jean sometimes tells him stories about how his mummy is the bravest person that he has ever known, and Maes wants to be like her. But his knee <em>really<em> hurts.

"Hold still, Maes, let me bandage this up, and you'll be okay in no time."

Mummy puts some funny smelling thing on his knee, and it hurts even more. He screws his eyes shut at the pain, but doesn't cry because he wants to be as brave as her.

"Honey, it's going to be alright. The pain will go away if you count to ten," he hears mummy say and immediately forgets about the pain – only wondering how him counting to ten will make it go away. He slowly tries the method, counting in whispers until he reaches ten. And magically, the stinging is gone. He is still uncomfortable, but now the stinging has stopped and his knee is all bandaged.

"Thanks mummy! It really went away!" he informs her with a smile, still unable to believe his luck.

It doesn't occur to him until later that night how his mummy had known he was in pain. He hadn't cried after all, so how could she tell? Maybe the same way he could tell when she was sad but didn't cry?

_Maes Hawkeye, age 5 years. _

* * *

><p>Motherhood has been the most challenging experience of your entire life. Out of everything you have experienced - life at home with your father, the military academy where females were treated just as roughly as the males, if not more so, Ishval, working under Fuhrer Bradley's direct command, the Promised Day - nothing has been quite as demanding as taking care of a child. Before Maes was born, you would have secretly scoffed at a woman claiming her child was harder to take care of than international events and political coups, but now… now you would wish you could find that woman again to apologize for not believing her earlier.<p>

You still remember the day it first dawned on you that you were going to be completely alone when it came to raising the baby. You were a little over 15 weeks pregnant, and it hit you out of the blue. Of course, it had been your decision to keep Maes all to yourself, but just sitting in your small apartment, wearing a shirt three sizes too big for you, the fact that you were now completely on your own had hit you like an icy waterfall.

You had thought you were prepared, but were you? Did you really know? Were you really equipped to be responsible for another life? Such questions had torn and shredded their way into your mind until you found yourself unable to do anything but pick up the phone and call the only person in the world you could trust to keep your secret. And true to form, Jean Havoc burst in through your door twenty minutes later.

* * *

><p>"<em>Jean, I… I'm pregnant…"<em>

"_What?"_

"_Yes, well over three months now."_

"_Does Mus- does he know?"_

"_No."_

"_Why?"_

"_Jean… You have to h-help me…"_

"_Shh, there Riza, why don't you tell me what happened? And of course, I'll help." _

* * *

><p>Jean listened, his face darkening every with sentence you uttered, though you weren't sure if it was at your account of what had happened or simply at <em>you<em>. Certainly you deserved his fury. But that wasn't important. What mattered was that he agreed to keep your secret and talk to Rebecca about it. You knew that if you alone had asked Rebecca's assistance, she would have declined, but with Jean's added persuasion, there was no way the First Lieutenant could say no.

That night, Jean was the one who made dinner and then slept on your couch as you tossed and turned in the next room. Your worries were far from put to rest, but in the end, the knowledge that made you drift off into a fitful sleep was that at least two other people in the world had your back. The task of giving birth to and raising a child wasn't as impossible as it had been a few hours ago.

Rebecca wasn't happy, as Jean had warned you. She did however, agree to your terms.

* * *

><p>"<em>Riza, this is… I don't even know what to say. Do you realize how difficult this is going to be?"<em>

"_The thought has occurred to me a few times, yes." _

"_And don't use that ice bitch tone with me!" _

"_Sorry…" _

"_Look, Riza, I'm your friend, and I want to help. But you're going to have _a baby_ for heaven's sake. You can't really hide it. What are you going to tell people when you get bigger? When he or she is born? And I don't think anyone will be in doubt as to who the father is, knowing _you_." _

"_Jean said I could take leave until-"_

"_Screw him, what does he know?" _

"_C'mon Becca, what did _I_ do?"_

"_For one thing, you let him go away. And now you've made us promise her something so impossible – that won't lead anywhere good. There's no way only the three of us can keep it quiet. We'll need all the help we can get. We need to get the rest of the team together. Breda, Falman, Sciezka, Kain-"_

"No!"

"Listen_ to me, Riza Hawkeye. I realize – and even understand to a certain extent - why you want to do this, but you don't seem to be getting that we Cannot Do This Alone!_

* * *

><p>Against your better judgment, all the others were called to your apartment and told the summary of what had happened. They were also informed of your choice and asked to help out. In the end, you weren't quite sure why everyone agreed. Falman nodded without saying a word, Sciezka reached for your hand and squeezed it softly, Fuery stared at you with wide, scared eyes that made him look like the kid who enlisted at nineteen, Breda said nothing, only listened in silence.<p>

You had thought the difficult part was over, that you had a substantial amount of allies to aid you. Until Rebecca came running in one day and told you that Madams Christmas had somehow found out. Even today, you remember the way your heart twisted in on itself in panic. Were you too late? Would she have already made the phone call that would destroy everything you were trying so hard to protect? Incoherent with panic, you somehow managed to make your way over to the club and beg an audience with the Madame before she made her decision.

* * *

><p>"<em>You have exactly five minutes to explain yourself, Captain, and it had better be good enough to keep me from picking up the phone right this minute." <em>

"_R- he never wanted the child, he asked that I abort it…" _

"_So? Show me a man who's delirious with happiness the moment he hears he's going to be a father, and I'll show you an Ishvalan who hasn't suffered because of us." _

"_I… the child is _mine_, I don't wish for anyone to interfere…" _

"_Unless you give me a real reason, I'm picking up the phone _right now_!" _

* * *

><p>Finally, it dawned on you that lying to her was not an option. So you told her the truth. The truth you had been keeping even from yourself until now. The truth the madam's son couldn't make himself say the night he asked you to get rid of the baby. The truth that would forever forge the way for your lie to live and continue.<p>

The madam staggered back in her chair, her shoulders and eyes weighed down with what you had revealed. Her fingers, thankfully, were nowhere near the telephone. Over the course of your career, you had seen Madam Christmas many times but this was the only time she had looked utterly helpless. It is not a look you would ever witness on her features again.

Things got easier after that, in the sense that you only had the morning sickness to deal with and the leave to apply for. Jean and Rebecca even helped find a place where they would deliver the child without asking too many questions. In the end, things progressed just as you planned – save the strange phantom pains in your chest that you suspect will never really go away. But they mostly came in the night when you couldn't sleep and could be ignored during the day for the most part.

And then Maes was born.

If there was such a thing as love at first sight, then it happened to you the moment you laid eyes on the tiny baby in Rebecca's arms. After a grueling 16 hours of pushing and shoving as you bit your lips tightly to keep the screams locked firmly inside, you had fallen unconscious – a perfectly normal thing, the doctor had assured a panicked Jean. By the time you came around, they had the baby bathed, wrapped in a blue blanket and nestled in Rebecca's arms. The wetness on your cheek was the only thing that alerted you to the fact that you were crying, but you didn't care. Even as a day old infant, the baby was unmistakably his father's image. The same nose, the same crop of dark hair… the slightly slanted position of the eyes. Only their color set him apart, marked him as yours. And from that day onwards, _yours_ he became.

You were surprised when things didn't get easy even after the birth. Sure, now you didn't have to worry about keeping him hidden, keeping him safe. But now your life revolved around baby food, diaper brands, educational toys and crying. Lots and lots and lots of crying. Maes never seemed to agree with you on anything. Not on what he should be eating, nor when he should be sleeping. Even in the early stages of your relationship with your child, you realized he had a mind of his own no matter what all the baby books said. This point was illustrated perfectly when you brought home one of those increasingly famous "Find Waldo" books and asked Maes to look for the hidden character among the brightly colored illustrations. Maes had looked at you with all the pity a four-year-old could muster and patted your knee softly as he told you he didn't _care_ where Waldo was and would it be so bad if he was never found?

And through it all, you always kept quiet about how much you were struggling. You didn't want to seem like a bad mother. Other women managed it perfectly, and so could you if you tried hard enough. So what if you were a single parent? You had always been more productive than one individual in the office. There was no way you couldn't fulfill the role of both parents and still raise a healthy, happy child.

Maybe you got better as time passed. Maybe Maes somehow understood how hard you were trying with the uncanny intuition only a child possessed. All you know is that he started behaving as he grew up. He listened, he reasoned, he loved you. Despite everything, he seemed to genuinely care about you. Things like not living in as comfortable a house as others, not getting all the expensive toys and having a mother who was obviously clueless didn't seem to matter to him. For the first time, someone loved you _unconditionally_ which is something you will never, ever deserve.

* * *

><p>"<em>Hey Maes, tell me, who's you best friend?"<em>

"_C'mon mummy, _not again_!"_

"_One last time, promise."_

"_Why do you always ask when you already know the answer?" _

"_I forget, sweetie. So, who's your best friend?"_

"You_ are, mummy! And don't forget this time, Kay?"_

"_Never." _

* * *

><p>And now the child you went to such lengths to protect, the one you struggled for hours to bring into this world, the one you cried with almost every night when he refused to be nursed or sleep, the one who pointed out the pointlessness of the Waldo books, the one who assured you that you were his best friend, was lying still in a hospital bed with only the constant beeping and whirring machines to assure you of his continued life. The machines that – in the very depths of your heart – you fear will soon be unnecessary.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Just a small shout out to all single parents struggling out there. You should know what you're doing is way beyond the capabilities of normal human beings and I really admire your strength and sheer power of will. *salutes*

As usual, feedback is much loved.


	7. What Hurts The Most

**Acknowledgement:** For bookwrm389 who beta-ed this chapter, for maryh10000 for deciding to work on _The Highest Value_ again, for Lou Nebin who drew a fanart of Maes Hawkeye threatening to beat me with a happy stick if I don't give him a happy ending, for Sonja Jade who made two awesome banners for this story and for you, the reader, for being so patient. Yes, I am alive and now that the holiday season is past, I am back to writing.

* * *

><p>He knows he's dreaming.<p>

After so many years of the same nightmares, he's learned to tell when he's awake and when he's not. Of course, it doesn't help. He still has to watch the dream unfold, unable to do anything to stop or change it. But at least he knows it isn't real. And the knowledge is a comfort in itself.

So when he approaches the sea of faceless Ishvalans, swathed in his sand-colored cloak, and raises his pristine white gloves to the crowd, a part of him knows that he isn't killing anyone _new_. That this is just old bloodshed manifesting in his subconscious in the form of nightmares.

His thumb brushes his middle finger slightly, caressing the deadly fabric with the softest touch possible, a small spark comes to life. He watches it carefully, and it grows into a flame under his hard gaze. The Ishvalans continue to scream soundlessly. Finally, when the orb of fire is intense enough, Major Roy Mustang flicks his wrists and snaps all out, hurtling the makeshift bomb into the faces blurred together in panic and agony. As soon as the fireball leaves his palms, the screams take sound. A thousand faces, a thousand agonized screams, all indistinguishable from each other.

Save one.

The boy's pale face and black hair stands out starkly among the dark-skinned, white-haired Ishvalans. There is such a contrast between this boy and the people slowly burning all around him, Roy is genuinely surprised he didn't notice it before. The child's eyes meet his, eyes that are very familiar.

"Daddy?"

The shock and horror on the boy's face is as painful as what Roy's victims must be feeling but he can't look away. Once again he raises his hand, this time aimed at that familiar face. The child opens his mouth and lets out an unearthly shriek as Roy snaps his fingers, already feeling the spark building into the fiery orb it would soon become.

_Maes! _

That boy, it's his son, it's Maes. The realization stabs like a knife through his gut, followed by the knowledge that it's already too late. The Major is already armed with the next fireball and is about to hurl it directly at the horrorstruck boy in front of him.

_NO!_ He tries to scream, but suddenly he can't speak. He can't stop his arm in time, can't recall the flames he's just sent to destroy his son.

Unable to do anything Roy watches his son consumed at the hands of his own alchemy, tears running down his face but still unable to make a sound. The child's last word rings through his mind as he sinks to his knees.

"DADDY?" Maes writhes in agony as his father weeps silently at the flames slowly licking the boy's flesh from his bones.

"_DADDY!"_

* * *

><p>"Sir, we're almost there." Breda's voice interrupts the dream and jolts the General awake in his uncomfortable seat. Roy quickly reaches up to wipe at his sweaty brow, hoping his subordinate hadn't noticed his troubled sleep.<p>

"How much longer?" he asks, his voice only slightly shaky. If Breda suspects anything, he doesn't show it.

"ETA in about ten minutes, Sir. Falman's coming over himself to take us. I went ahead and confirmed that you would be going to the hospital straight instead of the accommodations provided for you."

"Very good, Major," Roy straightens, reaching for his jacket as the train hurtles towards East City Station. Breda was right in that at least. After the dream the General just had, all he wants is to see the boy he should have been introduced to long ago. He wants to see his son safe and sound, away from any flames that could hurt him – be it in dreams or reality.

Patting his pockets to make sure the photograph and card are still safely tucked there, he turns away from Breda, trying to blink the last of the tears away from his eyes as he watches the dull city sights blurring by.

_Hang in there, Maes. I'm coming. I promise…_

* * *

><p>"And I said no!"<p>

"Riza, this is the only way-"

"My son and I have survived on our own this long, and I don't see the need for that to change," you cut Jean off mid sentence, refusing to hear his plea. It has been this way ever since Maes was admitted to the hospital. Every few days, Jean or Rebecca try to subtly mention that you need help, and you always change the topic or, failing that, simply walk out. Yes, no one can convince you that you need help, a shoulder to cry on, a man's support. Haven't you raised Maes on your own until now? And you haven't done a completely horrible job. Maes is a sweet child, happy, healthy, intelligent…

_In a hospital_, a traitorous whisper echoes in your mind, and as you do with all such voices of doubt, you ignore it, hoping it will go away.

"Riza, he's Roy's son too…" Jean says quietly, making you gasp. This time, he has gone too far. Yes, Rebecca and Jean and sometimes even Sciezka hinted at Maes' true parentage, but no one had dared utter his name. At first, it was because you couldn't stand hearing it, not after everything that had passed between you two. After Maes was born, you expressly forbade his father's name from being voiced because you didn't want your son to hear it and start asking questions. It was bad enough when Maes somehow found an old photograph taken of his father and you as teenagers, and you had no wish to repeat that conversation with him, ever, if possible.

"Please leave before Maes is subjected to more of this nonsense," you say through gritted teeth. Jean might mean well but that is no excuse for distressing your son. The doctors have warned you that patients in comas can sometimes hear what is being said around them, and you do not want Maes to hear any more than he might already have.

Instead of leaving however, Jean does something he has never done before. He walks straight towards you and grabs your shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into your flesh through the plain white blouse you wear. "Riza, he can't _hear _you!' Jean hisses, drawing his face close to yours. Forcefully, he turns you to the bed where your son lies, as still as though carved from stone. "He can't hear any one of us, he can't see. And he may Never. Come. Back."

_No,_ you want to shout, but your eyes are fixed on the boy between the sheets, looking almost as pale as his bedding, hooked up to various machines that count his heartbeats, keep him alive. Words fail you so you close your eyes, not wanting to acknowledge that you have failed your son. In one more way, you have failed him.

Jean releases you and offers you a handkerchief, at which point you're surprised to find your face wet with tears. You try to wipe them away, you really do. But they continue to stream down your eyes, an unending supply that seems bent on drowning the linen square clutched in your shaking fingers. You only realize you've sunk to the cool tiled floor of the room when Jean goes down on his knees beside you.

"He c-can't," you sob as your friend tries and fails to comfort you. "He can't… I won't l-let him. He ca-can't g-go, I w-won't let him…" you repeat, desperately praying that you would have the strength to keep your promise.

* * *

><p>General Roy Mustang enters East City General Hospital in a rush, not bothering to stop at reception because he knows exactly which room he is looking for. His son is on the third floor, adjacent to the Intensive Care Unit in a private room where all visitors are granted entrance only by leave of the patient's family. The General could see as much from the list of visitors the boy has received in the last week. Familiar names like "Captain Jean Havoc", "Mrs. Schiezka Falman" and "Captain Kain Fuery" jump out at him along with the name of a person who seems to spend more time in the room than out of it.<p>

A lump forms in his throat as his eyes trace the letters of her name, taking in the elegantly signed H and the hastily scrawled Y, misting at the flowing, curly Z the writer always scribbled as an afterthought. When they were children, Roy once jokingly told her that her signature looked like "Ria Hawkeye" and she took care since then to double back to make the Z more pronounced. Roy tears his gaze away from the letters grouped together in the hand of the only woman he has ever loved, taking the last few steps to the closed door behind which his son lay. Breda and Falman, he had left downstairs, somehow knowing he has to do this alone.

With all the courage he can muster at that moment, Roy Mustang reaches out to push gently at the door to the private room, his fingers barely brushing the pale translucent glass as it swings inwards, revealing a woman bending over a young child who lies in bed. With a jolt, he realizes his entrance has been so silent, it has gone unnoticed.

For a minute, Roy just stands there, watching the blonde lean over her son – their son – as she brushes the hair from his forehead, her frame sagging with the weight of the boy's sickness and her face betraying the anguish she has been going through these past few weeks. He can't see her eyes from his position by the door but he didn't need to see them to know she had been crying recently. He always knows when his Hawkeye cries, _always_.

As if sensing his hungry gaze on the two of them, she looks up, and though her eyes are just as grief stricken as he knew they would be, they drink in his features – uncertainly at first and then with red hot fury. But before she or Roy can make a sound, a high pitched bleep starts ringing in the room, and the monitor near Maes' bed starts flashing. And then all hell breaks loose.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> I hope this was worth the wait. Updates will be a lot quicker from now on seeing as I'm no longer fasting/doing double shifts at the hospital/cleaning the house/taking down decorations/in the middle of midterms and assignments.


	8. And Havin' So Much To Say

**Acknowledgement:** For my beta, bookwrm389, who always says the right things. I don't think she realizes how much I appreciate her advice, editing skills and the uncanny ability to read my mind in terms of plot and what I'm trying to convey.

* * *

><p>"I wonder how the baby gets out of the mummy's body," he asks. And just the way mummy looks at him, he knows she's scared. They're walking in the park, and she's wheeling his scooter along, but she stops when he asks. Then she looks up to the trees and pretends she didn't hear him. Mummy can be funny like that sometimes.<p>

"I wonder how the baby gets out of the mummy's body," Maes repeats, knowing that mummy can't ignore him again. "Do you know?" he asks, looking directly up at her.

Mummy stops walking and pulls his scooter to the side. She looks at him a little funny but then says, "Yes I do."

"Really? How?" Maes is excited to hear the answer. George and Keith were the ones who told him that babies come from inside mummies, but when he asked for details, they said they didn't want to tell a baby like him. But Maes knows it's because they didn't know either. Well, maybe now _he_ can tell them.

His mummy lets out a sad breath, and before he can pat her, she says "Sweetheart, I really don't want to talk about this right now." She looks tired all of a sudden which can't be possible because mummy is never tired. She always wakes up the earliest and goes to bed way after he does. "Besides, I think you're too young to know," she adds, making him sad. He hates this, being told that he is too young.

"I'm six now," he says stubbornly, standing on his tip toes to show mummy how tall he is. Maybe when she says how grown up he's becoming, she will tell him. Grown-ups always tell each other everything.

But mummy doesn't. Instead she stoops down on her knees to his level and brushes his hair from his head. He never understood why adults did that, why they would lessen their height when they could be tall.

"Then let's put it this way, Maes. _I'm_ too young to tell you. Does that sound better?"

He thinks on her answer for a moment and then nods. Mummy kisses him and then gets up. She puts one hand on the scooter and starts walking with him again. They walk in silence for a long time.

"I wonder how the baby gets _inside_ the mummy's body?"

_Maes Hawkeye, age 6 years._

* * *

><p>One glance at the small waiting area outside Maes' hospital room shows Roy Mustang that nothing has changed since he left it five minutes ago. He walks in, his steps heavy and his back screaming from the train ride as well as the almost nightly abuse he's inflicted on it in the past years, his hands holding two cups of coffee. One he sets down on a small table in front of the sofa he's claimed since the doctors rushed to shoo him and Hawkeye out. And the other… he considers handing it to her, but she'll likely pretend that it, like him, doesn't exist. He sets the coffee on the table in front of her instead and reclaims his uncomfortable seat.<p>

When the alarms in his son's room went off, his heart stopped in panic and for a single moment, he had seen the same look mirrored on Hawkeye's face. But then the medical staff rushed in and directed them out posthaste. They spent twenty minutes trying to stabilize his breathing, reenact his heartbeat, equalize blood pressure and a whole host of things that Roy didn't understand. It was ridiculous how when it came to field surgery, he was as apt as any soldier but when the same terms applied to his son, he felt as helpless as he had been during the brief period he was blind.

For those twenty minutes, both he and Hawkeye were of one mind, staring at the door and praying that the doctors would be able to help Maes. They didn't speak, didn't so much as glance at each other because they both knew their son was more important. It was only after the doctors emerged from the room and told them that the child's condition was stable – if unchanged – and that he would remain under observation for a few hours still that the death glares started. Neither the General nor Hawkeye were allowed in the room for those few hours so there was nothing to do but sit here and each pretend the other didn't exist.

It takes Roy over an hour and a caffeine fix to work up the courage to finally say something to her. He sets his Styrofoam cup down, raising his head to look in her direction. Of all the things he wanted to say upon seeing Hawkeye for the first time, "You grew your hair out" is the first out of his mouth.

She seems taken aback by his statement. At least, her glare lessens slightly, but only for a few seconds. The General wishes he'd thought to bring his bottle of whiskey with him.

As stupid as his first remark was, he can't seem to stop himself from making another. "I always thought we'd have blonde children."

Again, she doesn't reply, and suddenly a great weariness overcomes him. In the space of a few days, he's come to realize he has a son – a son she actively hid from him – who is at death's door. Angry as he is at her, all his subordinates and even at his dead Aunt, all the fight has gone out of him, washed away with fatigue and sorrow and worry and the constant pain in his back. He just wants to talk to her, hear her say something. And if he has to make the start, then so be it.

"What do you want from me, Hawkeye? An apology? Because I could demand the same of you. He's my son too."

She looks at him coldly for a moment before she opens her mouth to speak. "Maes Hawkeye doesn't have a father." Her eyes are tired, but at that moment, they reflect every bit of love and hate she has ever felt for him. "And neither does he require one."

* * *

><p>You can see your words have cut him deep, a wound he is in no shape to take. Against your better judgment, you have been studying him for over an hour now. His hair has grayed around the edges, his gait is slower than it used to be. He slouches now where once he stood proud and tall. Have the years done this to him or have you?<p>

Regardless of his appearance, you still stand by your statement, and it would be best to remind him so before he starts getting any ideas about staying. Maes is _your _son. He has always been, and he will always remain so. And the sooner the man across from you realizes that, the better.

"Regardless of what you may feel Captain, he is legally my son." There is a hint of anger in his voice, and why not? You have just denied him the right he has come all this way for. Anger is only to be expected. Anger, you can manage. It's something familiar, something you can hold on to and make sense of. If you stay angry, you will not burst into tears where you sit.

"Not if I choose to deny it," you say, keeping your voice level. It is now his turn to glare at you, his coal black eyes burning furiously as he contemplates your words. He knows it's an empty threat as much as you do. The boy looks too much like him. It is the mere notion that you would suggest denying Maes' parentage that enrages him. Good. Rage is familiar, rage is safe.

But instead of another cutting sentence, all he says is "You hid our son from us because I asked you to consider abortion? Is that why you saw fit to never inform me that I was a father? Or did you think I wouldn't have wanted to know? That I wouldn't care-"

"Care!" you spit out the word, you voice rising in fury. "What would you know of care, _Sir_. You who couldn't see past his own ambition, his gleaming medals and his dream for the future to think of a child, a child who wasn't even born yet. So please don't use terms like 'care' lightly in front of me. You don't know the meaning of 'care' until you've sat down by a feverish child's sickbed, laying cool towels on his head throughout the night. You don't know what 'worry' feels like unless you go through every vile scenario that could have happened if your son is a few minutes late from school. You cannot imagine what 'love' is until your child tells his classmates proudly that you are his best friend."

"DON'T FUCK WITH ME, HAWKEYE!"

The General is livid now, on his feet and as close as he has ever been to hitting something. For a second, you think he might just strike you in his anger, but he doesn't. All he does is bring his fist down on the small table between you two and spills the coffee you had left untouched there. You remain silent, waiting for his next move.

The pools of dark brown liquid dripping off the table seem to jolt him out of his rage. He grabs a few napkins from the table and dabs at the coffee fruitlessly, giving up when he realizes it's no good. The damage is done now. The irony of the situation is not lost on you.

"I apologize" he says after he's taken a seat. "I didn't mean to scare you, Captain."

You think about denying that you'd been frightened, but decide against it. He has always known you better than that. You remain quiet instead.

"You know I would have stayed with you to do all those things," he says softly. "I would have been there every time he was sick, I would have worried right along with you if he didn't get back in time. Hell, I would have been the proudest father in the world if he'd called me his best friend…" he trails off, his broken tone making your stomach twist painfully inside you. No, you can't give up now, not after all you've done. You've worked so hard to convince yourself he wouldn't care about the baby, you'd almost believed it. But now…

"Every time I think of all the things I've missed… His first word, his first step. I don't even know unimportant things like what my son's favorite food is and what games he likes to play," the man continues, his gaze fixed on the brown droplets of coffee still dripping to the tiled floor.

His tone is dangerously close to melting the walls of ice you have constructed around your heart years ago, and you don't want to hear any more of what he has to say. You had made a decision in the best interest of your son, but if you keep listening to his father, the decision may well get thrown out the window. You want to run, to get up, to get away from the man with the sad voice and sagging shoulders, but you can't make yourself move.

"I've only known about him a few days, but I worry about him all the time. If he's well cared for, if he's got good friends, if you spend enough time with him. And I know I deserve some of it for what I said that day, but that doesn't stop me from worrying about him. And now, when I see him like this and think he might… that before I even get to know him, he might…"

"No," you mean for it to come out loud and determined, but the denial is only a weak whisper. "He'll be fine," you say in that same weak voice even as you look at him, begging him to confirm your words. If he said them too, it would make them true. If everyone believed Maes will pull through, then he will. You just _know_ it.

Instead of offering you reassurance, he asks you a question. "Riza, why didn't you tell me?" He seems beyond caring what the answer might be, the damage is done. No matter what you say, it will not undo the past eight years of your lives. But what you can do now is tell him the truth. The truth Madam Christmas took to her grave, the truth you never told anyone else. He deserves at least that much after everything you've taken from him.

"I'll tell if you tell me the _real_ reason why you wanted me to have an abortion."

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Please don't lynch me, I swear, it's all coming out in the next chapter. *hides behind a sign reading "Reviews Are Very Welcome" *


	9. And Watchin' You Walk Away

**Acknowledgement:** Thank you, thank you, _thank you_, bookwrm389 for not just the beta work but for actually _understanding_ what I tried to show here. If three people see this chapter with the same eyes and understand the emotions that went in it, I will consider myself extremely lucky.

* * *

><p>There are times in Roy Mustang's life when he swears that Hawkeye and himself share one mind. Perhaps it was a result of growing up under the guardianship of an alchemist whose moods swung from neglectful to outright abusive, an instinct that taught them both to keep quiet when Master Hawkeye walked into the room. Perhaps it was Ishval that forced them to hide their guilty expressions after a kill, to make their faces into impassive masks so as not to break down right there. And then, perhaps it was from working under a supernatural army that encouraged them to communicate with glances in place of words.<p>

Whether it was one of those or all, it couldn't be denied that Mustang and Hawkeye knew each other like no one else. And yet now, as the General stands in front of the woman he has loved for as long as he can remember, he can't even begin to guess what's going through her head.

"W-what do you mean?"

"The abortion. Why did you-?"

"I heard you the first time, Captain," the alchemist replies curtly. Clearly she isn't going to let it go. "My reasons are still the same as they were all those years ago. I assure you I've not gone back and made amendments to them. Had I known I had a son to answer for, I might have given it consideration."

"If we're really going to go down that road, Sir, then I think it's best you take your leave now. I have a son to look after." Her voice is as smooth as ice, and to anyone else, it would seem unflinching. Only he knows it means she's on the verge of breaking down.

But that doesn't mean she's faultless. In fact, if anyone should be made to feel bad about the decisions they've made, the things they've said or left unsaid, it should be her. He struggles for a moment, trying to come up with a retort, but she's already turning away from him, and he can't take that. Not again. He walked away from her life once and as a result, left his own behind. He will not let her do the same again.

"Do you remember how many people in Ishval we killed Captain?" he says to the floor.

A soft gasp escapes her at the mention of Ishval as it was back then. Of the blood soaked sands and scorching hot sun that bore witness to the countless human lives they took.

"That's okay," the General continues softly. "I don't either. There were too many, too far away to count… But I remember the children. At least the ones I killed in close range. Sixty-nine of them. I don't know if that's how many I killed or if I just stopped counting after that point." He looks up at her, and is it his imagination or has her shadow moved a little bit closer to his?

"Don't you think that if anyone in the world doesn't deserve parenthood, it's me?" he finishes, finally looking up to her tired eyes. "How could I… Of course it was unfair for you to go through the same. But if you wanted a child, we could have talked. We, someone else…" he stops, the thought even more painful than the confession on his lips. He knows he's lying. He would never have been happy with the notion of Hawkeye raising a family with someone else. But she wouldn't have either so it was a moot point.

Instead of reflecting on that pain, the General turned on Hawkeye instead. "And you know all this. Don't pretend you don't. Just because I never said it out loud doesn't mean you didn't understand. So I don't see what you hope to gain from making me say it out loud. Because you always understood that, didn't you?"

"Yes," she admits after a long pause. "I understand perfectly."

* * *

><p>You do, you understand better than he will ever know. He has always thought <em>he<em> is the only one who feels undeserving of love, happiness, a simple life. As usual, he's self-centered and wrong. Had he looked at you that day in his apartment properly, he would have seen his own fears and insecurities reflected in your eyes. The one time you really needed him to understand you, he was busy stammering on about some distant future and duties and plans.

And you understood. You knew the child could never see the world, not with two parents as inadequate as yourself and the General. Two people who absolutely hated themselves for their past crimes and lived their life seeking a redemption they would never truly find. You were in agreement of the abortion, you were in the car, you even made it all the way to the clinic.

"When I was ushered into the doctor's office…" you begin slowly, trying to make him understand how it was for you. "It felt like Ishval all over again. You mentioned sixty-nine children…. My count was thirty-four. And all I could think about was how, after the procedure was done, it would be thirty-five.

"I was shaken up, but I didn't balk," you confirm. You have always been too loyal for that, doing anything he asks of you. "Not right then at least. The surgeon noticed how uneasy I was and told me the procedure would not be as terrifying as most woman think. She… when she saw her words weren't helping, she said she had another opening three days later and if I needed time to think… And that's all I intended to do. To think. Yet somehow when I reached you, my mind was made up. I couldn't, not a thirty-fifth.

"When you came in later that day with dinner, I almost told you," she confessed. "And then I realized I couldn't. Not if this child was to grow up in a somewhat normal environment and you were to keep your dreams of Fuhrership. Don't think your ambition was the deciding factor though. I just couldn't live with myself if we failed as parents, not after everything else we've failed at."

Silence greets your monologue, and your eyes fix firmly to the marble floor beneath you. You don't want to look at him because he won't understand. Just like he didn't that day. He didn't see how scared you were then, and he doesn't see how terrified you are now at speaking the words that have been haunting your dreams since the day he walked out of your life.

"So your idea of good parenting is to keep one half of the parent duo uninformed?"

You expected a statement like that. What you didn't expect is the sting it brings with it, like someone has physically struck you.

"You say you worry about him right?" you try to explain from another angle. "You've only known of him for a few days, and yet you claim to worry about him all the time. Imagine how much worrying I have been through. Every day, every night, every moment I'm with him, knowing I don't deserve him, knowing I must do anything and everything to keep him safe. If I had… another parent, there would always be someone to rely on, someone I would hope to make up for what I was doing wrong, I would slip up, knowing that someone else would compensate. The same would be for the… other parent. And between the two of us, Maes would be the one to suffer. But if I was alone, if I was the only one he could rely on, I would live up to his expectations. _I wouldn't have a choice_. My son would give me the strength I never otherwise had because he needs me like no one else has needed me before."

You can feel the tears forming on your eyelashes, but you refuse to let them fall. It's imperative that you make him understand that you wanted to be a good mother. You had to _force_ yourself to be a good mother because Maes needed one. In an ideal world he would have been born to two people who loved him more than they hated themselves, but an ideal world does not exist. You have both known that for a long time now.

"Maes can't know what his parents are like. He can't, about Ishval… not him, he'll be the thirty-fifth. My Maes…" You know you aren't making sense but you're beyond caring. "It would only be fair, equivalent exchange perhaps, to have thirty-four children taken away from me in return for all the ones I killed. But I don't have that many, just one and I don't want to give him up, I can't…"

There's a solid arm around your shoulders before you realize you're unsteady on your feet. You feel yourself being guided to the sofa, and all you can do is try to blink away the tears running down your face, insisting brokenly that Maes will not be the next child you kill.

* * *

><p>Her confession leaves Roy speechless. Not her reasoning as much as her guilt.<p>

_What have I done?_ The alchemist realizes as he guides her to the sofa because she's barely able to support her own weight. _All this time, when I was ridden with guilt and she was strong for me, I failed to see how her own guilt was eating her alive. _

Hawkeye had always been his pillar. _She_ withstood everything life hurled at him. It was Hawkeye who gave him the courage to go on when the next step seemed more impossible than the last. _And all that at her own expense_, he reflects as the woman curls in on herself and buries her head in her knees, occasionally muttering things like "Maes", "thirty-five" and "going to be fine".

How had it come to this? How did his solid, dependable, reliable Captain become reduced to someone who feared and loathed herself so much? Was she always like this or was it the after effects of childbirth?

No, a part of it has always been within her. He recalls the day she asked him to burn the array on her back. He told her he couldn't control the flames that precisely, that she might die if he couldn't pinpoint accurately enough. She graced him with a bitter laugh and said "be sure to incinerate my body properly then, Sir", which led him to make the decision of appointing her as his aide. Maybe if she was charged with keeping his life safe, she would forget all about wanting to end her own. It worked well…_or at least, I thought it did,_ the General admitted to himself, watching Hawkeye curled unto herself in a combination of guilt and grief beside him.

He didn't want to lie to her, to tell her he would have made a good father, to tell her they would have been a normal family. Because she was right in that at least. The shadow of their past would always haunt them, and Maes deserves better than that. Maybe Madam Christmas knew as much? He wants to ask, but again, the words don't come. In the end, he simply folds her into his arms and buries his own head against her shoulders. She doesn't resist, and they stay that way for a long time.

Much later, a nurse's quiet cough interrupts the silence in the room, and he gently lets her go. Her face is free of tears, but her eyes are red and swollen like they often were when she was a little girl. In a gesture as old as memory, he brushes his lips to her eyelids, and it awakens her further to the reality of the hospital they're in.

"Um, you can see your son now," the nurse informs them awkwardly before taking her leave. No sooner are the words are out of her mouth than they're both on their feet and heading towards the glass door of their son's room. A look of understanding passes between the two of them as he pushes the glasssmooth barrier aside and walks to the boy who looks so much like a younger, still version of himself lying between the sheets. _All isn't forgiven_, the look says plainly. _But it's a start._

It is only after Hawkeye has claimed her chair beside Maes' bed and the General is standing on the other side, holding his son's hand that another thought occurs to him. Amid all the accusations, confessions and insults that were flung previously, neither of them bothered to mention their feelings for each other.

Just as well. Because things may have changed, but both Mustang and Hawkeye still love each other as much as they always have, as much as they always will. And that did not merit saying out loud. It was perfectly understood.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> I am really, REALLY unsure about this chapter so please let me know your thoughts. Also in other news, I have officially graduated!


	10. And Never Knowin', What Could've Been

**Acknowledgement:** Once again, Bookwrm389 deserves all my gratitude for her excellent editing skills and invaluable feedback. And thanks to all of you who can appreciate what Riza is going through. This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever struggled with PTSD of any degree.

* * *

><p>"Mummy, is Nana Christmas in Heaven now?"<p>

Mummy is in the middle of chopping up yucky vegetables to put in the soup when he asks the question, but she stops. Maybe she won't make him eat the vegetables today? But then Maes realizes mummy always stops whatever she is doing when he asks her questions that she cannot answer properly.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Jen told me," he tells mummy proudly. "Aunt Becca told Jen that when people die, they go to Heaven. But mummy, I don't think Nana Christmas would like Heaven," he adds worriedly.

"And why do you think that?" his mummy asks, cocking her head to one side like she does when she wants to know what he's thinking.

"Well, Aunt Becca says there are angels in Heaven, and they always wear white and don't have the special drinks that Nana Christmas likes. And I'm pretty sure they won't let her smoke up there," he explains patiently. Really, his mummy just doesn't get it sometimes.

Mummy looks at him weirdly then, as if she is going to laugh. But she doesn't. She comes over to him and puts her hands on his shoulder, as if she's about to tell him something really bad.

"Sweetie, if you don't want to think Nana Christmas is in Heaven, that's okay. It's just what Aunt Becca believes, and you don't have to follow it."

Maes scrounges up his face, trying to figure out what mummy means. "So, if Nana Christmas isn't in Heaven… where is she?" he asks a little sadly. At least Heaven was _somewhere_, but if his grandmother wasn't there, then where could she be?

"She can be anywhere she wants to be," his mummy replies before she straightens up to ruffle his hair. "She could be at the park, she could be in the West, she could be skiing in Drachma, she could even be right here," Mummy smiles, and Maes smiles too. It would be cool to be able to go wherever he wants.

"Mummy, when I die, can I go wherever I want to as well?" he asks excitedly, completely caught up in the new adventure. He could go to that really cool new water park in Central that George and Keith have just been too. And he'd go to Ishval and see all the awesome statues they have there. He could even go to see that boy from the picture, the boy he knows is his father even though mummy won't tell him that.

Only, mummy doesn't seem to like the idea of him going anywhere. She's standing completely still, and her face has gone really white like when she's scared. He remembers she looked like that the time he fell down the stairs and had to be taken to the hospital. He got a really cool cast for his arm, but mummy was scared all the way. But why is she scared now? He hasn't fallen down anywhere.

Finally, she says, "You can go wherever you want to right now, sweetie." But he knows it's not true. Mummy has to work, and he has to go to school. And on weekends, George and Keith always want to play in the park, and then Aunt Beca and Aunt Sciezka always come over to help make a huge picnic tea for everyone. He is very busy and can't go anywhere. But then he realizes that mummy is probably scared because if he dies, he won't come over anymore just like Nana Christmas.

Getting to his feet, he walks over to mummy and squeezes her hand quickly. "Don't worry, I won't leave you alone," he says, and to his surprise, mummy is crying. It must be the onions. They are really yucky.

Mummy hugs him tight and even smiles when he wrinkles his nose at the vegetables on the chopping board. "Say Maes, how about instead of soup, we get some ice cream for dinner today?"

"Really! Ice cream! You're the best mummy in the whole world!" he shouts, and he means it too. Jen's mum never let her have ice cream for dinner.

Later, as he is scooping the last bit of his chocolate ice cream from the big, big cup mummy has gotten him, he realizes that he has a lot of work to do. If he dies, mummy will be very upset so he will have to find someone who will be able to take care of her after he's gone. And he knows he can't tell mummy that. It will only make her sad.

_Maes Hawkeye, age 6 years and five months_

* * *

><p>Slowly, unremarkably, life falls into a pattern of sorts.<p>

He comes to the hospital every day because he can't stay over. Only one parent is allowed to stay the night, and Hawkeye cannot be removed from Maes' side even forcibly. As a result, Roy has abandoned the military accommodations and moved into the house she and Maes live in. He brings her books, toys, clothes, anything she asks for and stays throughout the day. Sometimes, others call to visit, Jean and Rebecca most prominent among them, but they talk very little and always avoid looking at him directly when they can.

He doesn't care, not really. Not now at least.

Sometimes, he and Hawkeye talk. Mostly they sit in silence, and it is ridiculously easy to fall back into the routine of just being with her no matter what the circumstances. They have never been the type of people who need conversation, and that at least hasn't changed. Some days, all they do is sit for hours without as much as a word beyond the greeting and goodbye exchanged when he enters or leaves.

In the nights, he prowls the small house he has taken residence in like a ghost, trying to learn as much about his son as he can. For the first few nights, he doesn't dare enter Maes' room for fear of disturbing anything, but then Hawkeye asks for Maes' toy truck, and he has to venture in. Perhaps Hawkeye knows that, perhaps she doesn't. In the end, it only matters that he took the step and entered the room. And once he does, it's hard to stay out. Most nights, he goes to sleep on a rocking chair in the boy's room, looking at all his books, clothes, toys, crayons, drawings, and any other item that Maes keeps on his shelves, floor, bedside…

These are the nights when the General tries to drink in as much of his son's life as it was before the child got sick. And no matter how much he looks, it is never enough. Every discovery leads to more questions that no one can answer. For example, there is a set of _Find Waldo_ books that looks unopened on one of the boy's bookshelves. Does that mean his son is naturally neat with his things or that he doesn't particularly care for the series? An old teddy bear is under Maes bed, but did Maes just push it there unceremoniously or does he hide it because boys his age aren't supposed to like teddy bears?

He wants to ask Hawkeye all these questions, but is not sure he will get an answer. Most days, Hawkeye ignores whatever is going on around her, choosing to concentrate all her energies into somehow willing their son awake. Simply watching them like that makes him feel like an outsider, like he is intruding on something personal, and more than once he has to remind himself he is a part of their lives too. That he deserves to be in as much pain as she is in.

After two weeks of the same routine, he shows her the card Breda gave him. "The Madam had it, and Breda said she wanted me to get it when… the time came."

Hawkeye doesn't look surprised. She doesn't look much of anything lately. She hasn't cried since that day when Roy first arrived, but her sadness is etched in every line on her face, haunting her eyes in wakefulness as it did in sleep.

"She was always against my decision," the blonde admits quietly, as if afraid to say so in front of Maes. "When I told her, she was livid, almost sued for custody. I think her exact words were 'you don't deserve the child any more than he does.'

"And?" he encourages gently.

"She said the only reason she didn't was that she couldn't separate a child from its mother. Said not even she could be that much of a bitch. And when Maes was born, she instantly fell in love with him. We all did…"

Roy has seen pictures of his son as a newborn, and it is easy to imagine how everyone was charmed by the little bundle with a crop of dark hair and big golden brown eyes like his mother's. He himself felt a painful longing when he saw the pictures, and he can't imagine anyone who wouldn't have wanted to protect the boy.

"W-what is my son like?" Suddenly, it's imperative that he knows everything about Maes, from the most minor details to the most crucial. From his medical history to his favorite toy to the teacher he loathes most at school. He wants to know, he _needs_ to know as much as he possibly can in order to be a real part of his son's life and not just the specter who spies on an empty room by night.

Perhaps Hawkeye can sense his desperation. She looks at him for one long moment, then draws a deep breath and begins.

* * *

><p>Jean comes in during his lunch break as he usually does. It is the same almost every day, Riza and Mustang sit by their son's bed and wait for him to wake up. When Jean comes in, Riza always looks tired, but pretends otherwise. Jean can see the bags under her eyes, the way she slouches, almost a match for his once superior officer. They both look old and tired and a shadow of the people they used to be eight years ago, and he knows he can't do anything to help.<p>

He supposes he should be grateful that Mustang is here, but in the end, what difference does it make? Maes is still unconscious. His father's presence hasn't done anything to entice the boy back into the land of the living.

"But at least Riza has someone now," Becca tried to comfort him when he confided as much to his wife. Though if Jean is honest, he can't say if Mustang's coming has done more harm or good. True, they weren't yelling and screaming at each other, but perhaps that would have been healthier. At least they would be doing something more than just sitting there, waiting for a child who may never wake up.

Whenever Jean spoke to the doctors, they said they didn't have much hope. Well over a month has passed now, and Maes' condition is much the same. He simply isn't responding to anything they are trying, and it's likely to remain so unless a miracle happens And Jean learned the hard way a long time ago that miracles don't happen.

As he nears the door to Maes' room, for the first time, he hears voices that make him stop. Peering in through the little glass window, Jean sees Riza and Mustang engaged in a discussion about their son. Riza appears to be telling him about the time Maes dressed up as an Ishvalan for a school play last year, detailing how the boy was fascinated by his costume and tried on several "voices" before he found the right one to suit his character. Mustang is listening intently, as if he can picture the scene if he tries hard enough.

And for the first time in so many weeks, there's a hint of a smile on Riza's face.

_Perhaps big miracles don't happen_, thinks the Captain as he turns away from the door. _But maybe the fates won't grudge them a small one_.

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><p><strong>End Note:<strong> I always love hearing what you guys think to let me have it! And thank you for sticking with the story so far, I know it's not been a happy ride but we're almost done.


	11. And Not Seein' That Lovin' You

**Acknowledgement:** A gigantic thank you to Bookwrm389 for not jumping ship even though she knew what was coming. Also, thanks to Sonja Jade for coming up with the character of Corporal Deena MacLendon whom I borrowed, married to Fuery and gave a promotion to, all without actually asking the author.

This chapter is dedicated to my grandfather whom we lost in December '09. I miss you, granddad, wish you were here to see me graduate.

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><p>"You know, Hawkeye, I really am sorry," he says another week later. In the last week, the Captain has done all the talking, telling him as much about Maes as she can, answering as many of his questions as she dares. And now, he feels it's his turn.<p>

"Sir," she looks up uninterestedly from her place by Maes' bed. Very little that doesn't pertain to their son interests her these days, not that he can blame her.

"I should have been… I should have discussed the possibility, when you told me all those years ago that we were expecting…" he trails off, unsure how to continue. He doesn't want to lie to her, but the truth is just as hard. Lucky for him, she nods, understanding. It is her understanding that makes him loath himself more than anything else.

"I dreamt of protecting the entire country once," he admits bitterly. "And here I couldn't even look after my son." She shudders, and he knows he's said the wrong thing – again.

"That's why you felt you couldn't tell me, wasn't it? Because of these exact thoughts?" Again, she nods. They lapse into another silence.

"What are you going to do after..?" she begins, and he knows she is referring to when Maes gets better. There is no other "after" in her mind than the one in which their son wakes up.

"Work-wise, I'm almost finished at the border. A few more weeks and I can request a transfer back East," he says, and she hears him loud and clear. _Please let me be a part of his life. _

"That might be nice." _All right._

This time, the silence is longer, but for once, Roy is at peace. Ever since finding out about his son, he has stopped running. Things with Hawkeye might never go back to the way they were, but both of them have the strength to try and find a new normal, a normal with their son. It is the closest to tranquil the alchemist has felt in the last eight years.

Which is when everything starts to go wrong. As if the universe has been waiting for him to let down his guard, the machines attached to Maes start bleeping frantically just as they did on his first day at the hospital. The lines and numbers on the monitor start flashing. A nurse runs in followed by two doctors and then another nurse. He moves automatically beside them, but it's Hawkeye who reacts the worst.

All the blood drains from her face, and even as the doctors try to get her out of the way, she is frozen in place, her eyes glued to the machine that is counting Maes' heartbeats, the machine that seems to be showing less and less activity.

In the end, he has to drag her out of the room, but he's sure she doesn't feel a thing. Her lips part, but no words come out, her fear too intense to be put into words.

* * *

><p>You don't pray.<p>

You know Rebecca and Jennifer always light a candle for Maes. You know Kain always prays before going to sleep for his recovery. But you don't.

Because prayer is the last resort. It means the situation is no longer under control and you're putting your trust in a higher power. And no power would ever be high enough to trust your son with.

It seems like hours since the doctors have been with Maes, but in truth, it's only been ten minutes. But every minute you've spent like an eternity, hoping, wishing, pleading. But not praying. You prayed for your mother when you were younger, and it didn't help. You won't take a chance of such failure with Maes.

Finally, the professionals emerge. One comes to talk to you. You feel the General move beside you, unsure if the arm he places around you is to support you or himself. You really don't care because it's the same doctor who has been telling you all along that your son won't make it.

He looks at you, and you know what's coming. Again, he's going to try to tell you that Maes isn't going to make it. Again, you're going to deny it. Only this time, he'll sound a little surer, and you'll feel a little more defeated.

_I hate you_, you glare silently at the doctor who is simultaneously consulting his chart and clearing his throat in what he thinks is a sympathetic manner. _It's not often that I hate people, but I really hate you_.

* * *

><p>Rebecca Havoc hangs up the phone, her hands shaking badly. Twenty-four hours, the doctors had told Riza and Mustang. That was how long they estimated Maes' heartbeats to continue. Jean didn't sound any better than she feels, and she has no idea how they're going to go through with this. They would be visiting Maes for the last time that evening. With Jennifer.<p>

God, Jennifer.

A wild panic grips her heart as the woman scans around the small living room frantically. "Jen! Jen, sweetie, where are you?" she shouts. There is no response, and Rebecca is on her feet before she knows it, running from room to room to find her daughter, to make sure she's safe wherever she is, to make sure no harm has befallen her little girl.

She finds Jennifer curled up in bed, her blond hair still in braids that she's neglected to unwound before going to sleep. Beneath her blankets, Rebecca can just make out her daughter's favorite rag doll clutched protectively to the girl's chest.

Unbidden, tears spring into her eyes at the thought of her own selfishness. Riza is her best friend, has been for as long as she can remember. But right now, when she should be there for Riza to help her though this, all Rebecca can think of is how glad she is that her own Jen is safe and fast asleep. Perhaps that's what being a mother is about. To put everything else, even best friends, even yourself, after your children.

* * *

><p>That evening, everyone comes to say goodbye.<p>

Falman and Sciezka go in first, George and Keith trailing behind them. And while they go in with the older man supporting his wife, when they come out, it is Sciezka who's holding Vato up. Both their eyes are tired, their faces infinitely etched in sadness. The twins' eyes are rimmed red, fresh from crying.

Next up are Kain and his new bride, Deena. Lieutenant Deena Fuery hasn't known Maes long, but she loves him as much as all the rest. When they return, she is openly crying while Kain is tight-lipped. They disappear down the hall, holding on to each other.

Next up is Rebecca with her entourage – as she has taken to calling Jean and Jennifer. She tries to smile at you, but her face gives up halfway. You can't smile, and you can't nod. You can't show any signs of anything. Because if you do, you _will_ break down. And you can't do that right now. You don't know how Jean and Rebecca manage to explain this to Jennifer, but when they return, the child is sobbing quietly, head tucked in the hollow between Jean's neck and jaw as he carries his weeping daughter. Rebecca tries to hug you, but again, her body fails her. You don't mind, all that can be done later.

His father's goodbye is the shortest. He has a lifetime of things to say to the son he never knew and not enough time to say them all. So he simply says goodbye. And sorry.

And then it's your turn.

The doctor goes in before you to check up on Maes, to see if the machines are doing what they're supposed to be. They tell you there's still time – half a day at least. They're wrong, you know Maes better than anyone, and you know there's isn't much time left. You walk in and close the door, barring yourself and you little boy from the rest of the world.

"Hello, sweetheart," you say softly as you make your way towards the child, picking up his limp right hand, marveling at the four perfect digits and thumb you created when he was inside your body. You bend your head and press a kiss to each finger before gently kissing the thumb. You press another kiss to the well of his palm and repeat the same ritual with the other hand.

"I know you always worried about me, Maes," you say as you lean over him to brush your lips to his smooth forehead. "But I want you to know that I'm going to be alright." For a moment, you're sure your composure is going to slip, but the only thought that keeps you going is that you will not let Maes see you cry.

"I love you so much," you admit, your voice quivering slightly as you kiss him on each cheek. "And I'm going to miss you like crazy." There's no response from Maes, but you know he's listening, he _has_ to be.

"But I'm going to be okay. So if you're in pain, if it's hurting you, you don't have to stay for me. I have so many people who will look after me. Uncle Jean and Aunt Becca. Uncle Vato and Aunt Sciezka and…" You take a deep breath. "Even your father. He's here now Maes."

Maes' heartbeats slow to a crawl, and you choke back the tears you are determined to not shed in front of your boy.

"I won't say goodbye because I'm going to see you again, sweetheart. I have some work to do here, but then I'll be seeing you again, and your father too." You kiss your son one last time before taking a seat next to his bed, holding his hand firmly in yours. "Remember Maes, I love you very, very much. And so does you father."

You close your eyes, listening to the bleeps of the machine steady, slow, continuous…

Over…

His hand is cold by the time the doctors come in. His hand, your face, your heart. Everything is cold.

* * *

><p>They bring Hawkeye out, her features turned to stone. They tell him the time of death, tell him if he needs to speak with someone, the service is available on level two. They say they want to keep Hawkeye for observation, sign her up for a few counseling sessions as losing her son would be hard to deal with. He barely hears them.<p>

There's a vacuum around him, a vacuums that he's trapped in, and it separates him from the world. Where only he and numbness exist. Everyone is outside, a stranger to the hollow feeling in his chest. Only Hawkeye must know the feeling, but she's incapable of saying anything, of looking at anything, of responding to anything. And he knows she is imprisoned in her own vacuum of numbness.

They say the paperwork can wait. Forms need to be filled out to prove that Maes is dead. His silent heart, his absent breathing, his cold body isn't proof enough. As the General nods at them dumbly, not even trying to distinguish one voice from another, he realizes for the second time in his life that his world has come to an end.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> I don't even know what to say other than how sorry I am. And that there's only an epilogue left so at least it will be over soon. I hope you'll stick around for the very last part despite what's happened in the story so far.


	12. Is What I was Trying To Do

**Acknowledgement:** As usual, my fantastic beta Bookwrm389 who goes above and beyond the call of duty. I don't know what I did to deserve you but I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth. XD And to everyone who has taken the time to read, review, favoritize or add this story to your alerts, thank you so much. I was so nervous when starting out and thought no one would be interested in reading another "royai child" story. So thanks for proving me wrong guys!

**A Note on Maes' Condition:** It's come to my attention that some people missed out why Maes was in the hospital in the first place. So, the technical description of what Maes was suffering from is an aneurysm in the cerebral artery. It was hours away from rupturing when Riza brought him to the hospital where the doctors had to put him in a medically induced coma to operate on him. And while the procedure itself was a success, the boy didn't wake up – as briefly explained in chapter three.

There are many causes for an aneurysm to develop but I chose to run with it being genetic. There's very little you can do to prevent this kind of stuff from happening and it's nobody's fault. I didn't include all the technical jargon because the illness itself was never central to the story. _What Hurts The Mos_t was supposed to showcase major themes such as guilt, loss, PTSD and disordered thinking and those I think I managed to drive in proper. ;)

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><p>It takes Maes' death to turn Hawkeye back into Riza in his mind.<p>

Plain old Riza, who was never plain to start with. The little girl who spoke quietly when she did at all and did far too much around the house for her age. The little girl who actively hid from people in the recesses of the old estate she shared with her father and his apprentice. The girl who was so shocked by her father's death, she was incapable of doing anything but watching as Roy made the funeral arrangements.

And once again, that is exactly what she does. Riza watches, as if from a far distance, as he makes the arrangements for their son's funeral, the only thing he will ever be able to do for the boy he never had the chance to meet.

Surprisingly, he isn't angry anymore. He has realized that anger requires too much energy to sustain it. And right now he needs all of his resources to keep himself and Riza from falling. They're not standing right now, per se, but they're on their feet, holding on to each other in their grief and sorrow. And he needs to make sure they stay up. He has let her down before, and he will not be able to live with himself if he lets her down again. For the first time in his life, he has been given something as valuable as Riza herself – an opportunity to be _her_ pillar.

The service is small, a few people gathered around the grave where little Maes lies. Someone says a few words, but he doesn't know who. Riza says nothing at all. She hasn't said much since the boy died, and it's all right. Painful as it may be, he knows the procedure here. She will withdraw into herself, and then it will be up to him to find her again, to teach her how to talk and smile and live. He has done it all before, during and after Ishval, and it's something he's familiar with. That is the only thing he's going to concentrate on now, making her better.

They drive home after the service, and he moves into the basement without hesitation. There are only two bedrooms in the house, and the second one will always belong to Maes. Maybe it's chivalry, maybe it's because he's afraid to be so close to her, but he doesn't venture into her room. Not when he feels lonely, not when the hard couch presses knots into his back, not even when he hears her crying upstairs.

She, for her part, doesn't ask him to leave. She doesn't insist he stay either, but she doesn't turn away his company. And even when they don't talk, she gravitates towards him as if unsure of where else to go. They were like that when they were younger, drawn to each other simply because they had nowhere else to be. It isn't physical attraction, it is simply an attraction, the feeling of hanging on to the one thing in the world that is familiar no matter how much it hurts.

During the day, the house is quiet. His laughable attempts at housekeeping do nothing to open the lines of communication. His insistence that she eats are met with quiet submission, and his unspoken questions are answered with equally unspoken words. Luckily, they have never needed words.

After a month, she goes back to work. He tries telling her that she should stay at home, and she listens, but does it anyway. He wonders if she's ready for him to leave her and go back to the border, if she will be able to look after herself. Then realizes that _he_ isn't ready to leave _her_. A few days later, he suggests a trip to the Cretan border for the both of them. She doesn't reply, but he takes it as a yes, and they set out to finish his work three days later.

And she cries through it all. Every night, without fail, he hears her sobbing for the son they've lost.

* * *

><p><em>After…<em>

* * *

><p>Days have a way of turning into weeks and weeks into months. And soon those months become a year. A whole year since you were a mother, a year since you had a little boy who called you "Mummy" twenty times a day for reasons as mundane as, "Look what I found" to as serious as, "When will I be as tall as Uncle Jean?"<p>

It still hurts, and a part of you is sure that it always will. But another part is learning to see that perhaps you aren't the only one hurting. That perhaps you've hurt enough to start to heal, even if just a little bit at a time.

Nine months have passed since you arrived at the border for what was supposed to have been a three-week trip. Somehow, it has extended into almost a year, and sometime during that year, you learned that you could live. At first you cried alone. For weeks and weeks, you continued to mourn, and when your tears finally ran dry, you realized that there was another just as miserable as you, no better at hiding it than you have been so far. And finally, you reached out to the broken man you lived with, reasoning that since you have always shared everything with him, why should misery be any different?

And finally, in a world where nothing made sense anymore, he did. His arms around your shoulders, his soft breath brushing you skin… His touch bought a semblance of sanity back into your life, and you know it has done the same for him. You felt all the years slipping away as he held you just like he did after your father's death, just as he did after Ishval. That special space in his arms where your body just fits still exists, though you haven't occupied it in years.

For the first time in months, you went to sleep not thinking of Maes. Even if you felt terribly guilty in the morning for betraying his memory.

You glance at the man sleeping beside you, his breathing far from peaceful, pure exhaustion lining his face. It was a difficult day at work, and as usual, he had not wanted to tell you why, making you realize how much things have changed this time around. So you took his hand gently, asking him to let you in with your eyes, and he submitted, his whole frame sagging in relief. He talked of the treaty between Amestris and Creta, solidifying every day as the lands that are now ready for planting are allocated to the farmers on the border. You nodded and found it felt good to talk of something you were once so occupied with. You found yourself responding, even probing for more information.

Living without your son had seemed unfeasible after his death, and yet here you are, still alive. And you owe it to Maes to make use of that life. Hadn't you told Maes you had something to do?

The next day, you tell him perhaps it's time to head back. There are still many things to do, and almost a decade later is better than never. He is unsure at first, but agrees.

* * *

><p>The ceremony is a quiet affair with only a few witnesses. The bride and groom sign the matrimonial papers and kiss each other softly to seal their vows. To a stranger, it would seem a cold wedding, but the witnesses gathered there know the couple has promised to share everything. Grief, pain, memories, and whatever the future brings.<p>

The congratulations are quiet, punctuated by a joke or two of "about time". The groom smiles, and the bride nods, yet both of them look exactly the same. It's always been uncanny how they mirror each other even when looking so different. Finally, the man takes his wife's arm and leads her out of the office, and everyone watches them leave, pretending not to notice that there should have been a little boy present at the ceremony too. There's no point bringing up someone who hasn't been forgotten in the first place. And they all have work to do. General Mustang's old unit has been reinstated – with the sole exception of Maria Ross acting as his aide because his wife can't – and soon, everyone is going to be busy again.

So they take their time, watching the couple walk out into the tentative sunshine.

* * *

><p><em>What hurts the most,<em>

_was being so close,_

_and having so much to say_

_and watching you walk away._

_And never knowing,_

_what could have been._

_And not seeing that loving you,_

_is what I was trying to do._

* * *

><p><em>"Remember Maes, I love you very, very much. And so does you father,"<em> he hears her say through the silence. It's dark here, but it's light too. Maes doesn't know how, but he can see the light. And something behind the light, something person-shaped.

It's Mummy's voice, he would know it anywhere. Because she is the bestest Mummy in the whole world. No one sounds like his Mummy, no one smells like her. No one is as great as Maes' Mummy.

But he won't miss her because she says she'll see him soon. And he knows he will. He doesn't know how, but he knows Mummy is going to be okay. His Daddy is there now, she said so. And Daddy will look after her almost as good as Maes always did. So he isn't worried. He knows his Mummy will be all right.

"I love you too, Mummy" he says happily, and then goes to see what's going on in the light.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Here it is, the story in its entirety. Again I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this fan fiction. Your support really kept me going, so let me know what you think. I always love hearing from you.

**Upcoming Projects:** FMA Big Bang, waiting for Maryh10000 to update _The Highest Value_, getting some down time in before my residency starts, catching up with _Naruto_ and lurking in the _Song of Ice and Fire_ fandom (have already made a start there XD).


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